


Of Webs or Weapons

by PhantasmicNovember



Series: To Be Human [1]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassin Peter Parker, Canon Rewrite, Chronic Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - cPTSD, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra Peter Parker, Implied/Referenced Torture, Includes discussion on Disassociative Disorders, LetPeterParkerRest2019, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Moral Dilemmas, Murder, Mutant Powers, Muteness, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Specified Disassociative Disorder (type 1b), POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Peter Parker Has Anxiety, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prosthesis, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Superfamily (Marvel), Suspense, Temporary Character Death, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2020-07-21 07:30:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 90,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19998181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantasmicNovember/pseuds/PhantasmicNovember
Summary: Peter Parker has been trained and raised as an assassin, doing hits for what remains of HYDRA for years. But when he finally receives the biggest and most important hit of his career, the wanted targets really begin pushing the limits of his repressed morality. And gives him a bit of hope for an out. AU rewrite where Peter's born a mutant.





	1. Patience

**Author's Note:**

> I began this story July 10th and just decided to cross-post this here and on Wattpad. FFN will also get the first updates on this but A03 and Wattpad will follow shortly.
> 
> I'm posting a chapter a day until this is caught up. :D
> 
> No glossary yet but this is where one will go!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission always needed to be done. But an unexpected mission might change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! :D Welcome to the first chapter of this disaster. Hope you like it!
> 
> EDIT: Hello everyone! I finally decided how long this story was going to be.
> 
> This story is going to (so far) be a three part series going under the name 'To Be Human', and this is the first part of it. Each of them will contain movies from Phase 3 that I would be rewriting into the AU.
> 
> Here's what this story will be covering!
> 
> CAPTAIN AMERICA: CIVIL WAR (IOLAUS ARC): Chapter 1 (Patience) - Chapter 15 (Keepers)
> 
> DOCTOR STRANGE (STRANGE ENCOUNTERS ARC): Chapter 16 (Sensory) - Chapter ? (?)
> 
> GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY VOL. 2 (SPACE ODDITY ARC): Chapter ? (?) - Chapter ? (?)
> 
> SPIDER-MAN: HOMECOMING (DAWN AFTER DUSK ARC): Chapter ? (?) - Chapter ? (?)
> 
> EDIT 6/7/20: The story will now be including themes centering around the discussion of disassociative disorders, particularly OSDD-1b. I'll be doing my best to illustrate such sensitive topics in an intelligent and respectful manner, but as a human, I'm bound to make mistakes, so have patience with me! Such topics begin in earnest in Chapter 16.

Patience was the key to victory in this occupation. That's what they had all drilled into his head. If you got impatient, you were bound to give yourself away and screw up the hit. And you absolutely _could not_ screw up the hit, or they would screw _you_ up. A painful ping in his right side and left leg burned at the thought, but his face was still despite the annoyance. He'd learned years ago to keep an impassive face.

The still figure was crouched in the northeast corner of a large, dark conference room, perched on the ceiling, hands and feet easily molding to the plaster surface. Not a sound could be heard in the quiet room, and not a muscle moved out of place for the lone being hiding there. There was absolutely no way the spider was willing to give away his location on such an easy hit. Not when there were easier and more swift methods of accomplishing his mission.

His thoughts were quiet and an eerie calm settled over the person as another entered through the door. The perched figure was acutely aware of every noise his target made. The senator's breaths were raspy, rattling out of lungs that were progressively ruined with each Malboro he lit. His polished Italian leather shoes scuffed the mottled gray carpet as the larger man brushed gracelessly past the desks and chairs there, making his way over to the podium and hiding behind it. His heart beat thudded loudly in the predator's ears as the man peaked restlessly over the top of the podium. When the door opened once more, flooding light into the twilight room, the senator quickly ducked his head back down beneath his shelter.

"Where could he have gone?" A figure brushed into the room, clad in black with a rather poor ski-mask on his face. He held a large Heritage Rough Rider .22 revolver in the hand that wasn't keeping the door propped open for his compatriot to step through. Following the other man closely was a slightly larger, thicker man that resembled a bull underneath the thick black cloth. He had a Seneca Double Shot gripped in his gloved hands, which he reloaded with more ammo while the door closed behind them.

"He came this way. It's worth checking." The other figure responded, voice deep and husky. Flipping the lights on, he growled out, "The jig is up, Froy! We'll go easier on ya if ya just come out!"

As the room lit, both shooters and the senator became acutely aware of a lithe, crouched figure on the ceiling. The gunmen raised their weapons up, preparing to fire upon the intruder, while the senator let out a yelp of surprise. This did not faze the spider, though. A shot went off, hitting the now-empty plaster. Both shooters backed up at that, glancing around wildly, trying to find wherever the hell the hidden figure had gone. "W-what the hell was that?!" The smaller shooter exclaimed, turning to his partner for advice.

His partner who could no longer respond through the knife embedded deeply into the jugular. Giving it a twist, the assassin yanked the blade out, before giving a quick flick of the wrist to send the blade careening into the other shooter's forehead. He hit the ground with a dull thud, and the hitman lowered the other larger figure to the ground as well before pulling the weapon out of the other man's head and cleaning it on a sleeve before pocketing it. The change in noises had the senator once more peeking over the pulpit, which he quickly scrambled out from once he realized the killer was approaching. "N-no, s-stop! P-please! I-I'll take back the wrongful accusations! I-I'll admit to all of my tax fraud! Just p-please! Don't-"

While he'd been babbling, he hadn't noticed the thin white string coming out from one of the assassin's sleeves. One that was now wrapped tightly against his throat, effectively silencing the senator's words. With a quick tug, the body fell limp to the ground as the head rolled away from its original position, spurting blood as it came to a stop near the killer's feet. Without a word, the hitman detached the web and let it drop into the growing puddle of blood, where it effectively dissolved without a trace. Then, he snagged the senator's business card from his shirt pocket, placing it in a small utility belt hanging from the killer's waist. Without a sound, he left the room. It would be too late to find him when someone would get curious enough to find the bodies.

* * *

The figure seemed to materialize almost silently in a nondescript location, heading down an elevator to a large hidden underground bunker. Ever since their main heads of operation were taken down by the notorious Avengers, they had moved their asset to an even more secure location and had become even stricter with his information. Anything that couldn't be said verbally was written on paper in the special language they had made of various ciphers, with the ink able to fade away in direct contact with sunlight and the paper made of material that would dissolve nigh instantly in any liquid. They could not afford to lose this most special asset, especially after they had lost their first. This asset that they had been culminating for years was much too important to lose to superheroes.

Entering a small room after going through a pneumatic lock, he dropped everything on his person but his clothing into a tub for inspection, setting the business card on the table so they would know the hit was done. They got angry if he didn't bring proof. He didn't like it when they were angry. Then, without a sound, he stepped into a one-way door that would allow him in but not out unless someone opened it from the outside. It led to an incredibly small, padded room with one way mirrors lining all sides near the ceiling. He moved automatically to a corner and sat down, curling his legs up to his chin and hugging them to his chest as he awaited further orders.

This was how it worked for one Peter Parker. Someone would order a hit and request him, his handlers would give him the information and he would perform it. He would bring back proof of the job finished before it made the news, drop his gear off, and sit in his chamber until they needed him for something again. He never left the room unless it was a test, a mission, or something they needed him to make. Food was always deposited through one of the panels that would exchange out for the tube, and the same went for a toilet, a sink, and a shower. No one ever entered unless they needed him for something, which would be as frequently as every hour or as infrequently as weeks on end. It all depended on if they needed the mutant to do something, which left the killer with a lot of time on his hands to think.

He was born exactly 14 years, 7 months, 11 days, 19 hours, 23 minutes and 54 seconds ago. His parents discovered he was a mutant that had a latent gene activated 13 years, 5 months, 1 day, 3 hours, 2 minutes and 9 seconds ago. His parents had been killed in an orchestrated plane crash 10 years, 8 months, 8 days, and 15 seconds ago. He had been adopted by his Aunt May and his Uncle Ben 10 years, 8 months, 7 days, 18 hours, 12 minutes and 59 seconds ago. He had been taken by HYDRA and witnessed his aunt's and uncle's deaths 10 years, 4 months, 13 days, 6 hours, 7 minutes and 3 seconds ago. He had been under their thumb for 10 years, 4 months, 13 days, 5 hours, 7 minutes and 3 seconds ago. He had given up trying his resistance to their program 8 years, 9 months, and 10 seconds ago. Peter Parker, as far as the HYDRA goons could tell, had been effectively killed off from his memories, his actions, his thoughts, and his mind 8 years, 3 months, 10 hours, 37 minutes and 16 seconds ago.

Keeping track of how much time had passed was one of the only things keeping Peter sane through it all. It helped him remember who he was, what he was, where he had started, and how long he'd been forced into this charade. He'd given up hope of rescue 4 years, 11 months, 26 days, 1 hour and 48 minutes ago. Because rescue wasn't coming when no one knew you existed. They made sure of that. His only relatives? Presumed to have been killed in an unfortunate accident. Their adoptive nephew? A cold missing person's case from 10 years ago. As far as the world knew, and as far as even his captors knew, Peter Parker was dead, no longer a figure on the planet Earth.

To them, he was Weaver. The high-class, deadly assassin born with spider-like abilities who had been 7 years, 5 months, 3 days, 12 hours, and 10 minutes without a failure. Who they'd removed body parts from whenever he wasn't doing something to their exact specifications, starting at the outside and working in. He had exactly 21 failures under his belt. The first five had been cautionary, removing only the digits of his right hand. The next 4 had taken the entirety of his right arm. The last 6 had stripped him of a left foot. Each time they had removed an organic part of his body, they replaced it with a Vibranium prosthetic so he could still keep the same effectiveness. After going through the foot, though, they came to the realization that the physical torture of removing limbs was numbed to their dear pet assassin. So, they switched to different methods instead, ones that attacked his heightened senses. A specialized dog whistle that was attuned to a frequency no normal creature could pick up on and raised in decibels until he'd tried tearing his ears off. A gas that enhanced his sense of smell so acutely that it resulted in a bloody nose and desperate scrabbling. A combination of lights at varying colors, frequencies, and intervals that began to blur together anything he could see and an intense migraine. A muzzle he couldn't remove that kept periodically spurting varying intensities of chemicals. A device that shocked his nerve endings with just enough power to barely graze above numbing that provided a constant and dizzying cyclone of pain. And, lastly, a machine that repeatedly put him in danger but barely hurt him at all, causing his sixth sense to uncontrollably ache at him that kept him from doing anything more than crumpling into a bawling heap on the floor.

Peter had been stubborn, but after that, his frazzled mind couldn't cope with it all anymore. It locked away his old self and buried Peter Parker deep below the surface, where he watched impassively from the darkest recesses of his fractured mind. He could only be Weaver here. Any sign that an old part of him still existed would result in any number of the torturous devices they held, and he couldn't have that. Not anymore. So the only time he could truly be Peter was when he was here, in this little chamber, locked away in the vault of his thoughts. It was his safe space, hidden behind the impassive mask he'd woven with careful practice so as to not let a single sign of his buried former life emerge. In that, his alter ego of Weaver, despite being the organization's best assassin, was a protector to the young fourteen year old who'd been forced to grow up too fast.

He was stirred from his thoughts as his senses alerted him to three people exiting the elevator and pausing in the chamber before his own. He heard them going through the gear, checking it, as well as noting the hit was finished thanks to the card. A pleased conversation struck up between his handlers as they made note to tell their customer the task was completed. With all of that finished, the young assassin expected they would do what they normally did; leave and not return for a considerable amount of time. Which is why it was a little surprising to the spiderling when one of them opened the door. "Weaver," the tall, nicely dressed man Peter recognized as his head handler (codenamed Ace since real names were not used, lest someone learn and use that against them) gave a flick of the head to gesture to the killer to step out. Instantly he was on his feet with a refined grace that came from years of unrelenting training. He followed the man back to the equipment room, silently wondering what the change in schedule was about but refusing to let the question so much as slip past his mental barriers.

The pair paused within the other room Peter was most equipped with, the room where they stored, repaired, and kept all of his gear and equipment. They had learned early on of his intelligence and had him designing his own weapons, outfit, and gadgets, and upon realizing how high the quality was, had him periodically update and make designs for their own troops to mass-produce and use in combat. It was here that he could best connect with the one part of his old self they had allowed him to keep; the genius inventor who had effectively cut their spending costs to an absolute minimum and had singlehandedly kept most of their men alive thanks to the gear they were provided. Survival rates had increased a dramatic 41.74% when they used his designs.

The other two figures in the room met them when they entered. One was Ace's right hand man- a scrawny, rat-like guy that went by the name of Scrappy that was given the delegation of sorting through any and all requests that were meant for him. The other was one that Peter had seen on the occasion, though was not one of his handlers. It was a rather unimpressive man who looked plain any way you viewed him, wearing a pair of Aviators that went by the name of Coin. He was one of 11 individuals who had been granted the privilege of his repertoire and more in-depth knowledge on his hits. He wasn't one of the 3 who knew who he was and what he looked like under the costume, but that was the way they wanted it; the other 8 were only given pieces of Weaver's abilities, history as a killer, and effectiveness in varying degrees. Coin was probably the most knowledgeable of those other 8.

Scrappy flashed him a grin through dirty teeth. "Hello there, Weaver. Great job on taking out Senator Froy. I'm sure the customer will be most pleased. We're also impressed with how you dealt with the other obstacles that were there."

Coin had a folder that he carefully placed the card in. It was the latest in a long collection of proof from his finished hits. The man flashed him an easy smile, though Peter detected a hint of uncertainty lingering behind his eyes. Huh, odd. It didn't seem either of his other handlers noticed, and he wasn't allowed to speak without their consent (though this had died when Peter Parker did to them, since he had no real reason to speak due to the fact compliance was shown by action and not words), so he let it be. It did provide him with the smallest spark of comfort to see that not all of them seemed to be stone-cold. He felt that spark become a question of hope that he quickly snuffed back before it could color his brown gaze, and decided it was most important to focus back on the conversation. They didn't like it when he ignored them. That resulted in water torture.

"We just got a call in from the last remaining Heads," Ace murmured to his right, walking over to Scrappy and taking the folder the man pulled out from his vest. Bringing it over to Peter, he placed it in the assassin's hands. "It requires immediate action."

Scrappy smirked as he tapped the folder in the killer's hands. "This job is your absolute most important, which means it must be done _perfectly._ There's no room to play around, there's no room for error, and there's absolutely no room for getting captured. It will undoubtedly be your deadliest mission yet," the small man began to pace the room. "Which is why you may take your best gear and as much equipment and firepower as you need. You may take as much time completing the mission as it takes to do it without mistakes. If you get caught, you are to take the pill embedded in your jaw _immediately._ Failure means death. If we find that you are captured, and are unable to take the pill, we will exercise any means necessary to ensure you are killed. The targets are too important to allow for such a contingency. Are the parameters clear?"

After noting Peter's succinct nod, Ace nodded. "You may now see what the mission is. We expect you to set out at 2 AM sharp. Be ready to go by then."

The small group left, leaving Peter alone in the room, which told the assassin that they didn't expect him back in his chambers. Which also meant that he was not allowed to sleep, and needed to spend the time they'd given him preparing for what sounded like the biggest mission of his life. Checking the display on the nearby table, he realized it was 11:41 PM. That gave him less than 3 hours to prepare. Staring down at the unassuming manila folder, he let his gloved hands pause momentarily above it as he silently pondered what hit could make them break the routine so terribly. With an unimpressive turn, he revealed the contents of the folder, with the mission details and the hit, with the targets labelled clearly at the top, an image attached.

_Target: The Avengers. Priority: Alpha. Take out at all costs._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I actually made it to where all of the time stamps check out. This will probably be the only place I'll even give the dates outside of the actual narrative, so enjoy!
> 
> Current Day: March 21st, 2017, at 11:38:56 PM (at time of the beginning of that paragraph, where all time stamps are relative to)  
> Date of Birth: August 10th, 2002, at 4:15:02 AM  
> Discovery of Mutant Abilities: October 20th, 2003 at 8:36:47 AM  
> Death of Parents (Richard and Mary): July 13th, 2006 at 11:38:41 PM  
> Adopted by May and Ben: July 14th, 2006 at 5:25:57 PM  
> Taken by HYDRA and Ben's and May's Deaths/His Disappearance: November 8th, 2006 at 5:31:53 PM  
> Given Up Resistance: June 21st, 2008 at 11:38:46 AM  
> Fake Mental Death: December 21st, 2008 at 1:01:40 PM  
> Lost Hope of Rescue: March 26th, 2012 at 9:50:56 PM  
> Last Day of Failure: October 18th, 2009 at 11:28:56 AM
> 
> NEXT TIME ON OWOW: It was easy for Peter to brush off the moral ambiguity of his violent actions if the hits were all people he was unfamiliar with. But even though he'd been in this hell hole for a long time, he knew of the superhero team. And boy, does it throw a wrench into his carefully crafted world.


	2. Amending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amending and mending are difficult things to do. But if you're willing to do it, it can be done. But what would the cost be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *poses* This story is grim ooF
> 
> Thanks for the bookmarks, kudos, and the comment, though! I'm actually kind of surprised that this is getting a bit more popularity than SOTR, to be honest; the statistics are the opposite on FFN, haha. That does make me happy, though!

Peter stared at the words a moment longer, before quietly setting the folder down. He blinked once, before almost automatically moving to fix gear and get everything ready that he would need in the three hour time frame he was allotted. While he did so, his mind raced a mile a minute, but it wouldn't appear so to anyone who just so happened to be looking. He'd been conditioned to have a neutral poker-face at default, otherwise his hidden desires would've been gutted out of him ages ago.

They wanted him to go after the _Avengers?_ The strongest team of superheroes on the planet, maybe even in the universe? Fat chance that would work out, as far as the mutant was concerned. There were twelve members last he recalled (and the file stated that as well), all of which were either enhanced or could make up for it with their skillset. While he had taken down enhanced before as Weaver, nine of his failures were results of hits on enhanced individuals, mostly in groups of twos or threes. When they were by themselves, he could do it. But while he was enhanced himself, the risk for failure increased dramatically when more enhanced people were introduced into the mix. He felt a phantom sting of pain from his arm and foot at the thought, wincing internally at what they'd done to him with those near fatal errors.

The hit they ordered was insane, as far as he could tell. He had gotten better and more efficient at what he could do, and had eventually taken down a group of five enhanced without a mistake. But twelve was 2.4 times the formal amount he'd taken on. Not only that, they were the most famous individuals he'd been tasked to take out. Everyone knew their name. Their faces were everywhere. Any misstep on his part, any wrong string of luck, would get him killed or outed faster than a bullet. Frankly, he didn't know which would be worse; the thought that he could be tortured and killed by the Avengers, or the thought that he could be tortured and killed by his handlers. His only solace was that the Avengers might be more merciful and grant him a swift passing. Peter could only hope so if they got to him before he could take them out.

He began tinkering with his prosthetic, deciding that he needed to replace the mechanics there. It would be good to enhance the sticking he'd given to the metal, refill the web cartridges implanted there, and tweak the other tools he'd given the Vibranium arm as precautionary measures. The asset knew he would need every tool at his disposal if he even wanted a chance in hell of trying to get the hit done for his employers.

The mutant sighed internally, however. If he were honest, he'd grown numb to the killing. A part of him would never like it (scarier still, a part of him that seemed to be more feral and spider-like _did)_ , but he'd pushed his morality to the side. It was a necessity to stay alive and relatively sane with everything they'd forced him to do. He internalized it as something Peter Parker was forced to do as Weaver, because Weaver was just a puppet on their string, easy to manipulate and compliant to whatever they made him do. Which was the unfortunate truth he'd had to live with ever since that fateful November day, where his four year old self had still been whisked away from the innocence of youth and taught all too soon the horrors the world could dredge up. And, really, the hits didn't really tend to effect him much beyond the fact that he was killing someone who didn't deserve it. He didn't know or have personal interests in most of the victims he was sicced upon. Because of that, he could scrape by, blocking out their faces and their screams and the blood pooling around his feet in his dreams by justifying their estrangement from his predicament.

He couldn't do that, here. He knew of the Avengers, of course. Had heard word on them as he'd gone out to do hits, had heard snippets during tests or the makings of new gear for them to use. They were hard to miss. A group of superheroes that had saved the world from an invasion he'd almost gotten killed in on a hit five years back, and a league of robots hellbent on eradicating humanity that he'd caught wind of when developing new bulletproof clothing for operatives so they could take more of the intense hits the bots provided. His handlers absolutely despised their presence in the world, he knew. He knew they were the reason they'd suddenly had to go further into hiding, why restrictions had been further reinforced, and why they had lost a majority of HYDRA operatives; because the superteam had been taking out HYDRA bases left and right. Peter would've hoped they would find this place and destroy it, too, if he knew it was even possible for them to know of its existence. But, alas, the mutant had known better than that.

As he finished up on the arm and moved on to his foot, he began to wonder if he really did want to try pleasing his handlers by genuinely attempting the hit, or just give up and let them kill him. It was a dark thought, and Peter had never considered himself to be suicidal, but it had slowly become the only thing he could genuinely see as an out to a situation as grim as his was. And he had tried, for a time, to do exactly that when he'd first arrived. Of course, though, the asset had learned quickly, the hard way, that he was ridiculously hard to kill and trying to get himself offed resulted in him losing a limb or getting sensory torture. He was remiss to repeat _that_ ever again. They still loved using the whistle just to watch him squirm, and he wasn't looking forward to giving them a reason to enforce the limitations they had laid down for this hit. He knew their version of ensuring he would be killed if he couldn't be killed himself was slow, painful, and meant to make every last moment agonizing.

No... despite how long he'd spent carefully crafting his moral structure, he'd have to let a wrench be thrown into it. He _couldn't_ simply avoid going through with the hit, especially since the chance of him being captured by the Avengers would likely be higher than him getting _killed_ by the Avengers. They were superheroes, after all. Peter didn't think any of them would be too keen on killing a potential fountain of information... and that would only raise if they managed to find out who he _really_ was. A missing kid from Queens who was way too young to be the face behind mass homicide.

Pushing his thoughts as Peter Parker to the side, he let the more strategical and tactitionalist mentality of Weaver take hold as he pondered what his course of action would be. Because whatever it would be would have to be enough to defeat the Avengers. And if a bunch of HYDRA goons, each member's own personal demons, a god, and a homicidal robot couldn't defeat the team, how would he, a growing mutant, do so? Well, he'd just have to find a way. Weaver always found a way.

* * *

With a frustrated breath, Tony scrubbed a palm across his face as he leaned back in his chair. Ross's annoying voice blared through the other end, babbling on about how it was "too risky to try to amend the Sokovia Accords" or "those enhanced need to be monitored and the things you're trying to take away will screw everyone over" or some bull like that. If he were honest, the billionaire could care _less_ what Senator Ross thought about this mess. He had other things to occupy his thoughts. Like pardoning Steve's ex-assassin friend.

"...and the Sokovia Accords need to get in place _immediately._ Senator Froy was murdered and I have my suspicions an enhanced did it. Those two idiot thugs couldn't have done him in. That killer would be pardoned by the amendments you're wanting-" Ross was prattling, and frankly, Tony had enough of it.

"Look, Ross, I don't _care_ what you think. The UN will be convening to finalize the amendments and get them written in stone. They already liked what they saw, so can it, will you?" The philanthropist snapped, before promptly leaning over and cutting the line off. "FRIDAY, mute any and all incoming calls from Thaddeus Ross, will you?"

"Of course, Boss." FRIDAY chimed from the device.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he let out a sigh of relief. God, he was gonna have a bad headache from this. Tony pushed off from the desk, spinning in the chair for a few moments before finally standing, letting out a huff. The superhero stretched, feeling a few joints pop, and it pulled at his muscles. It made him feel _old,_ and that was always something of a stark reminder to him of how much time had passed since he was taken hostage in Afghanistan. Back then... well, the craziest thing was building an arc reactor with a box of scraps and flying around in a metal suit. Now there were mutants, gods, aliens, people from the past... and who knew what else they'd come across. Contemplating the sheer magnitude of everything they had to face made his head spin, and he could feel the headache begin to spike. Now wasn't the time to get existential, he supposed.

Walking out of the meeting room, he headed towards the common rooms of the Avengers Compound, stifling a yawn. He'd been busy that day; after getting roused from his lab at 6:30 AM by Pepper, Tony had to attend a rather long-winded call from the UN regarding their opinions on the amendments he and the other Avengers had proposed before they even _considered_ the Sokovia Accords. Most of them were, of course, dedicated to enhanced individual's rights, and quite a few were regarding where and when the superhero team could take action. The main one was that the team could operate wherever they were needed unless a country decided they would rather do without their assistance at the time. Another was that any matter that wasn't a world-wide threat could be handled without interruption as long as the situation dictated their individual intervention and they alerted a government liaison (who happened to be agreed upon to be Nick Fury to the team's relief and Ross's anger) to what they were getting done. Most of the UN, upon learning the truth behind the bombings, came to realize that the Avengers, despite their flaws and some of their downfalls, were much more beneficial to them as a team than anything else. And slowly (sometimes even begrudgingly), they warmed back up to the concept of giving the group of superheroes more freedom of operation. This, of course, satisfied all of their needs; James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes would be absolved of all former crimes that he unwillingly committed in exchange for their cooperation with the UN in world-wide threats. They'd fought tirelessly against any of the restrictions Ross and the others who agreed with his small-minded thinking had thrown their way, eventually reaching a compromise the entire team had agreed to. They could do what they needed to do so long as they alerted the UN to what it was, and if it was something global, the UN would get jurisdiction on where they were needed.

While it wasn't the most freeing thing, it satiated their desires. They could still have some government restraint without needing to be on a leash. They would know what they needed to do so they could clear an area, and they would get the freedom to step into conflicts that weren't world-threatening without needing to ask permission first. The majority of the UN were fine with those terms. The one who threw the biggest fit, however, was the original proposer of the first draft; Ross, of course. He seemed to have a single-minded hatred against enhanced, and was willing to do whatever he could to stop them. To be honest, Tony had never trusted him. Bruce had told him one day what the Secretary of State had done to him, and, well... he could never forgive that. It was despicable to do such a terrible thing to his science bro. And, well... while Tony had initially wanted to spring on the idea of government control, hearing it was from Ross was the thing that made him draw the line. Tony was more than willing to cooperate with government restrictions; but Ross was not going to be the one setting them.

As Tony walked down the hallway, he caught sight of the SHIELD agents training down below, and let out a sigh. The entire affair had honestly been one big mess after another; the framed bombings, protecting Bucky, amending the Accords... it was impressive the billionaire hadn't broken under the strain. It was a lot to take in. Finding out his parents had been murdered by the same guy Steve was trying to help, fighting against Zola and his super soldiers, waging a political battle against Ross, and trying to keep the team together was a job the philanthropist never would've guessed he'd be taking. Not in a million years.

Entering the living room, he spotted Clint, Wanda, Sam, and this guy the Falcon had introduced to them as Scott Lang, hanging out by the TV, Nintendo Switch controllers in hand, playing Mario Kart Deluxe 8. Go figure. At least they were having fun. Natasha and Bruce were talking by the island, seemingly making sandwiches. How domestic. Vision was staring out the window while Rhodey exchanged a few words with the android, and Steve was no where to be seen. Quirking a brow at the sight, he sauntered over to the kitchen, snagging one of the completed sandwiches off of the counter with a flourish, before biting into it. "Bet Ross would get a kick out of how domestic the world's most well-known enhanced individuals could be. He'd have a hay day. 'You're not allowed to make sandwiches! That's for ordinary shitheads like myself!'" he mimed, flashing the two an award-winning smile.

Natasha rolled her eyes as she set other sandwiches out at the bar for the others to grab at their leisure. "I'm guessing the call was uneventful, then," she mused. Tony wasn't really all that surprised that the super spy had figured out what he'd been pulled away to do. It was just part of her skill-set. "What did he try to convince you of that was wrong with the amendments _this_ time?"

Bruce had his eyes buried on the sandwiches as he finished making the last of them, a strained smile on his face. He enjoyed their company, but talk of Ross usually got him on edge. Both he and the big guy were not fans of him for ruining his life. "Probably something to do with us being able to operate where we need to without needing to ask permission first."

Tony polished off the meal, leaning against the counter. "I tuned him out. I don't make it a habit of listening to assholes with hidden agendas anymore."

The other two heroes gave an understanding nod, and Tony helped them bring the rest over to the counter. Hearing the movement, the others (including Vision, despite the fact he didn't eat) came over to the bar and snagged themselves the dressed bread. A few conversations then sprung up as they socialized over their lunch, and as Tony paused to catch his breath after a particularly snide comment from Clint about Ross, he couldn't help a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he let the moment wash over him. His team, his friends... his _family..._ being able to be together like this was the best thing the philanthropist could earnestly think of. Seeing how he used to be almost made him laugh at the irony. A few years ago he was _Tony Stark;_ billionaire, genius, playboy, philanthropist, Merchant of Death and prodigal son of Howard Stark who ran the largest weapon's manufacturing industry in the world and could care less about anyone that wasn't himself. But now, he was more than just that. He was _Iron Man,_ billionaire, genius, philanthropist, dating a woman he wanted to marry and part of a team of incredible individuals who saved the world together. It was almost surreal some days to realize how much things had changed. But, if the billionaire were honest, he wouldn't change a thing.

"Sir, the Quinjet is back," FRIDAY remarked, interrupting the camaraderie. "Captain Rogers and King T'Challa have arrived with Mr. Barnes."

Tony blinked. Was today the day that Barnes was being brought to the Compound? Huh, he must've forgotten. The hero felt a bit of anxiety bubble in his chest at the thought of seeing him again. Yes, he didn't _mean_ to kill his parents, but... Tony still remembered. But he was willing to give the former soldier a chance if it meant keeping their team together. Besides, it wasn't like _he_ was exempt from mistakes, either. He knew Wanda was still iffy around him thanks to what his weapons had done to her family, but she was willing to give Tony a chance. And, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he trusted Steve, and the rest of his team. They were all fine with the Winter Soldier. Would it hurt to at least give him a shot?

While he'd been lost in thought, the others had gotten up and headed out, and Tony scrambled off behind them, joining them at the helipad as the Quinjet landed. As it powered down, the ramp lowered, revealing the three other members of their team. Steve had a bit of a scruff on his jaw, the iconic shield framing his back. T'Challa was wearing his formal black attire, the nanite necklace that contained his suit framing the collar of the expensive outfit. Flanked between them was Bucky, a new prosthetic adorning his shoulder, hair a bit disheveled but eyes looking clearer than they had in a long time. They all flashed them smiles as they stepped out of their transport, and the team went forward to greet them.

"So, Terminator, got your wiring fixed?" Tony phrased nonchalantly, though anyone who knew him well could hear both the caution and the care in the words.

Bucky glanced at the iron-clad hero uncertainly, unsure of what his play was, and if he genuinely cared. A quick glance at the billionaire's eyes told him the truth of it, though; there was a quiet compassion hidden in the brown depths, almost as if the philanthropist was uncertain about asking but wanting to make the effort. And after what he'd done to the hero's family, well... the former HYDRA asset would be remiss to say he wasn't surprised. He'd heard mixed things about the man. Some said he was snarky and an asshole. Others said he was caring and paranoid. A few on the team would even voice that it was both. But from what he could tell... he'd changed from the former assumption, at least genuinely. So, an uncertain smile tugged at his lips. "I guess you could say that... Inspector Gadget."

Hearing the title, Tony couldn't help a bit of a snort at that. "Inspector _Gadget?_ " The billionaire asked, a more genuine smile cracking across his uncertain features. "C'mon, that's old-school! What about John Hammond?"

Natasha chipped in, "Tony, Jurassic Park is from 1993. That's pretty old, too."

Tony simply shrugged. "Hey, when they have more billionaire genius philanthropists in modern films that like to tinker with inventions, you let me know."

They all laughed at that, and all headed inside. The three newcomers got left-over sandwiches as they all socialized again, seeing as there was nothing for them to currently do. Tony found himself deflating as time went on, letting out a breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. This... surprisingly wasn't all that painful. In fact, he'd dare say that it could be doable. Now that all of that HYDRA junk was out of Barnes' head, he was a funny guy. Not as entertaining as Scott, Clint, and Sam could be, but he'd dare say that it would be fun to play on his lack of modern knowledge. It was just like Steve used to be.

Somehow, the news had been turned on, and something caught his attention. A woman dressed in fancy clothing, holding a microphone, was standing outside of a senator building. There were many people on the scene, held back by police tape and the accompanying hired help. There seemed to be a lot of clamor. "Late last night, two unidentified minor hitmen were identified breaking into The Capitol. A few were injured during the struggle, but no one was taken hostage. Their target was Senator James Froy, who quickly fled further into the building. The police were called on the scene swiftly. After searching the building, the bodies of Senator Froy and the two hitmen were found in an abandoned conference room. The men were identified as Lonnie Thompson Lincoln and Christopher Nord. The case was determined a homicide, though no leads have been released to the public. More on the story at 8."

Tony frowned. "Huh. That's odd," he mused.

"Senator Froy was one of the UN representatives pushing for the amendments," Natasha commented, face unreadable. However, Tony saw her shift on her feet a little, showing how unsettled that seemed to make her.

"Think that's a coincidence?" Steve asked, glancing over at Vision.

The android seemed to be deep in concentration, before shaking his head. "From what I gathered, the police records show no indicators of foul play. Although it is odd that two hired hitmen were also found deceased," Vision mused, gaze fixed on the now muted television.

"Sounds like a third party intervened, then, if they're claiming homicide," Rhodey chipped in, sitting on the couch.

Scott tipped his head. "Would there be any footage from the building?"

"FRIDAY? Can you look into it?" Tony asked, grabbing himself a drink and taking a sip.

"Sure thing, Boss," the AI remarked. After a few minutes, she chimed in, "There was interference with the CCTV footage around 11 PM last night."

"What?" Steve asked, brow furrowed. "Display it on the TV."

The footage popped up on the TV from the varying different cameras in the building. It played normally, and they watched people mill in and out of the building. Then, at 10:53 PM, the footage suddenly cut to a one second of static before the footage seemed to resume to normal. However, the group frowned. "The footage for the entire building was looped," Bucky pointed out quietly.

"By a professional, it looks like. If you weren't paying attention and didn't know where to look, you'd be completely fooled. Hell, I was almost fooled and I can see all the camera footage." Bruce remarked, a bit impressed.

One of the conference rooms suddenly flickered with the smallest flash of movement before the entire screen went dark. After a few minutes, the footage glitched back on, resuming normally, if the three bodies in the conference room were any indicator. The group sat there silently, processing the scene, before Tony quietly asked FRIDAY to turn the TV off. Then, with a puff of air, he ran a shaky hand through his hair. "Well, isn't that a little disturbing?" he tried to remark casually, though it was hard to force past the sudden lump in his throat. Whoever had killed them had done it fast and efficiently, if the disembodied head and the fallen hitmen were any indicator. He'd gotten a good look at the guns that were lying nearby, and they meant business. Who or whatever had done it was fast, intelligent, and had great tech on them if hacking and replacing all of the footage was any indicator.

Natasha frowned, folding her arms. She glanced over at Clint almost curiously. "You were after assassins like me before we met, right? Were there any that could do this?"

"In less than five minutes? Unlikely," Clint said, shaking his head. "They had to be enhanced to cause that kind of damage so efficiently. There's no way a normal person could do that, right?"

"That's what Ross was spouting to me earlier," Tony said, rolling his eyes at the mention of the senator he despised. Why couldn't this mystery assassin get _him,_ instead? It would make his job much easier. "So he seems to think that's the case, too."

"Why were people still in the building that late? Isn't The Capitol closed after 5 PM?" Sam asked, fixing them all with a curious glance. "They were there almost six hours after the place was supposed to be closed."

Vision chimed in, "From what I could gather, they were having a retirement party for one of the workers there, and it had gone late into the night."

"Basically begging for trouble," Bucky remarked darkly, shaking his head. "No wonder two hitmen arrived on-scene. That many government officials in one place after-hours with lower risk of civilians is a prime target."

Wanda folded her arms, leaning against the wall. "For more than one group, it seems," she added, brow furrowed and fixed on the floor. "One who's been fighting for our rights. Do you think Senator Ross might have something to do with this? He could've been trying to trick you into thinking he wasn't associated with it by playing annoyance."

"Would he do that?" Scott asked, glancing around at the team. "I know the guy's a grade-A asshole, but that seems a bit too conniving, even for him. He _hates_ enhanced."

They all looked to Steve, who sighed and simply shrugged. "I couldn't tell you."

T'Challa had been silent, staring at the TV with a peculiar expression. He broke the silence that settled over the group with a question. "FRIDAY? Would you be able to send this information over to Shuri?" the king fixed his gaze on the others. "She could help us see if whoever altered the footage left a trace. They're dangerous, whoever they are."

Tony quirked a brow at that, but didn't particularly feel like challenging the king on his choice of preference. After all, he'd seen the Wakandan Princess at work, and though he wouldn't admit it aloud, he suspected she might be smarter than he was. Certainly had better technology from what he'd seen when he visited the place. If anyone would have the tech to find their Anonymous, it would be Shuri. So, with a sigh, he quipped, "Let's just hope whoever it is doesn't pull a V for Vendetta on us. I'm not really wanting to be pulled into a revenge scheme by some angry enhanced out to get corrupt government officials."

"You'll still be on your yellow brick road, Stark, since that doesn't happen to be the case," The calm voice of Nick Fury interrupted as the former director of SHIELD entered the building, an almost smug grin being masked behind indifference. "Though I do imagine that would certainly win around some of the stubborn idiots there."

Tony glanced back to Nick quickly, and gave a cursory glance at the others, also noting their confusion. Frowning, he stared up at the ceiling. "FRIDAY, any reason you didn't warn us Nick Fury was here?"

"Sorry, sir, but you added him to the whitelist five months ago, and told me to allow him and any necessary guests in without precedence."

Dammit, of course. He'd forgotten about that. While he pinched the bridge of his nose, Natasha quirked a brow, an almost quiet amusement draping her features. "Have you been doing some homework, Nick? Because it seems like you know more about this guy than the cops do."

Steve fixed the former SHIELD director with a glance. "Anything you can let us know?"

Fury tipped his head in Natasha's direction, before fixing his one-eyed gaze on Steve. "As a matter of fact, I have quite a reliable source on our guy," he mused, folding his arms. "A SHIELD operative that I've had nestled deep into one of the spy training programs on a hunch. Something that HYDRA had been using under our noses and has miraculously continued working under the seams."

Scott frowned. "I thought you guys had gotten rid of all of the HYDRA facilities?"

Sam snorted at that. "Yeah, we tried, but they're like a damn cockroach. We keep seeming to find new things that were their's all the time."

Bucky frowned, unconsciously rubbing his prosthetic arm. "So they've... what. Been making another asset?"

Nick gave a nod in Bucky's direction, before raising a hand. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the hallway, stepping into the room. He was rather unimpressive looking and wore a pair of Aviators and a casual suit. In his hand was a suitcase that was seemingly shackled to his wrist. "This is Agent Faulers, though to them he was known as Coin. And I believe he's got info on just the guy you're looking for."

Wanda tipped her head, a small frown on her face and a flicker of scarlet on her eyes. "You didn't decide to visit just to satiate our curiosity." It wasn't a question; she could sense their intentions.

Agent Faulers stepped forward, eyes downcast a bit to the carpet as he adjusted to the presence of the famous superheroes. "Yes. Your lives are in danger. The same guy that killed Senator Froy? He's been given a new target, and it's you guys."

A resounding, "What?!" reverberated through the room. However, Natasha fixed her cool gaze on the agent, an almost curious glint in her eyes. "You seem to know an awful lot about this mysterious person." she remarked casually.

At that, Agent Faulers let out a breath, raising his gaze to fix on them. "I've been embedded in their ranks for seven years, Ms. Romanoff. It was tough work, but became one of eleven among their fold to learn of their asset. If I hadn't been trusted by them, I would never have been able to see the hitman in person, nor have learned of this latest hit," a quiet fire blazed in his eyes. "I stood by out of necessity. Nothing could be done about it before, but now, with this, there's a chance."

"A chance to what?" Rhodey quietly voiced.

"A chance to take HYDRA's best weapon off their hands and rescue whatever poor soul's behind the mask," Nick Fury replied. "A task befitting the Avengers without overstepping the amended Accords, might I add."

"That's all well and good," Tony remarked, stepping forward a bit, "but we've never heard of whoever this is before, nor this hidden HYDRA base. If you want us to act on the target on our backs, you're gonna need to start explaining, Sherlock."

At that, Agent Faulers gave the barest hint of an amused grin. "They call him Weaver. And he's the deadliest asset to ever fall into HYDRA's hands."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on OWOW: A change of plans.


	3. Infiltration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected discovery from an unexpected change of plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're caught up after this (until I write the 4th chapter)! Thanks for all the love! Y'all are awesome!

2 AM came all too quickly, as far as Peter was concerned. But, nevertheless, he stood at attention in the gear room as soon as he heard the elevator approaching. He'd only had just over two hours to prepare, though that was more than enough for Weaver to prepare for the hit. His dark red, dark blue, and black suit was filled to the brim with contraptions in hidden pockets and in a belt around his waist. His web-shooters were fully stocked and replacements were tucked away in a band around the wrist. An assortment of knives, daggers, and throwing stars adorned his pockets and were strapped to his skin underneath. A nanite housing unit was attached to the small of his back, ready for action in case he needed it as a last-minute weapon. The reinforced spandex and body armor underneath helped conceal the fact that he was armed to the teeth in weaponry. While he'd had the time, he also went and upgraded some of the technology he had implemented into the suit to help with his hacking endeavors. From what intel Peter could gather, the Compound had an AI that monitored the premises at all times. It would be much more difficult to get past than the simple mainframes he was used to.

He was a bit alarmed to note that there were more than just his handlers coming down to greet him. A small group of eleven emerged from the elevators; his three handlers and eight goons, from what he could tell. Scrappy had a smug grin on his ratty face, Hornet (the handler who handled his torture sessions and also held the brunt of Peter's fear and anger) held the god awful whistle in his hands, and Ace had a small frown on his face. Peter felt his heart sink. This didn't bode well for him. He couldn't help the pang of anxiety that bubbled from his chest at this assortment. His senses were on edge; there was danger, but he couldn't place where it was. Then again, he had learned to repress that sensation years ago. He was _always_ in danger here and only really heeded it when it was stronger.

Hornet lifted the whistle to his lips and blew into it for ten long seconds. The noise grated on Peter's ears and burrowed into his skull, effectively clearing his mind and giving him a clean slate. A part of Peter had been prepared for the inevitable when he had noticed the specialized whistle. They had learned it was the most portable torture device in their arsenal that worked so well that it made him susceptible to whatever they said after they blew into it for long enough. As his mind short-circuited, a fleeting realization hit him. Whatever they were about to ask of him required his complete and total compliance. Otherwise, they wouldn't have used the whistle.

Noting the blank look on both Peter's face and eyes, Hornet dropped the device from his lips, grinning. Ace adjusted the tie he was wearing before clearing his throat. "Weaver, there has been a change of plans." His lead handler murmured, before giving the floor to Scrappy.

The man was all too eager, arms moving to emphasize his words. "Well, y'see, we had a little meetin' with the others who knew 'bout ya after receivin' the hit on the Avengers. However, a few hours after the meetin' with everyone, we discovered most of the files on ya were either copied or taken. The only people who could've had access was one 'a the eight who was aware of ya existin'," he wrung his hands together, a malicious grin on his face, eyes narrowed. "So we need ya to sniff out our dirty lil' rat for us."

Hornet gave a wry grin that crinkled the corner of the lip that had a scar dashing across it. "These mooks here are the direct underlings of each of the suspects. They'll take you to them and ask all the questions."

Ace fixed a cold gaze on Weaver. "Protocol Masquerade is in effect due to this. After you're finished, you will return here for further instructions. The original hit will be held off until this is performed," after that, he gave a nod. "Hornet, you may confirm the order." And with that, he spun on his heel and left the room, Scrappy following closely behind.

Hornet lifted the whistle to his lips and blew two quick bursts on it, and suddenly, Peter felt like he could breathe again. Awareness slowly trickled back into his eyes at that. He felt like stumbling from the sudden whiplash, but had long since learned to hold himself carefully. The last of his handlers approached him with a grin. "You know what to do, Weaver. Get it done."

Peter's body moved automatically to leave after Hornet had disappeared, the other goons moving ahead to lead him. Really, he was just along for the ride. He had learned a few years before that every time they did these special orders, his body and subconscious would carry them out regardless of what he wanted. It was like he was no longer in control of his own body, as if his sight was trapped in someone else's shoes. It was a form of dissociation the mutant really hated, but had no control over. There was no point trying to fight the order, either. He didn't know how to break past it, never had, and it didn't seem likely he would discover how to do so now; especially where doing so would be suicidal.

* * *

The first visit was to one of the last HYDRA heads that knew of his existence, who went by the name Alpha. Peter hadn't actually seen him before, but definitely had heard of him. He was well-versed on everyone's code names that knew of his existence. He had to be. One of the lackeys, Dante, stepped forward, ushering the asset to follow. The others were waiting at the exits, knowing full well they were only to leave with Weaver. The assassin followed the interrogator into the room, the door closing softly behind them.

Alpha was in his mid-fifties, with salt and pepper, balding hair. He was a bit heavy set, with a stern look in his gray eyes that would make most uneasy. He held himself with importance as he sat rigid in the office chair at his desk, clacking away at his keyboard. When he heard them enter, Alpha's spine stiffened, and he gave them a tentative glance. Peter's trained eyes saw that Alpha was clearly disturbed by his presence there. He held himself defensively, guarded, as if he expected an attack at any second. Which, the mutant supposed was fair. He hadn't seen the infamous assassin in person before, only knew of his existence and some of the hits he'd done. To be standing in the same room as such a deadly killer would put anyone on edge.

"Hello, gentlemen," Alpha said, voice calm, though the assassin noted a bit of panic breaking through the facade. He was definitely on-edge. "To what do I owe this visit?"

Dante flashed his boss an award-winning smile, taking one of the guest chairs and placing it in front of the desk, spinning it to where he could lean his elbows on the back of the chair. "Oh, nothin' much, boss. Just doin' a teeny tiny little investigation."

At that, Alpha stiffened further, an incredulous look spreading across his face. "I haven't a clue what you mean by that, Dante. I have done nothing to warrant any form of check-up on my duties, especially in regards to the asset," he said, giving a nod in Weaver's direction. Snagging a stack of papers he was working on, he straightened them on his desk, before placing them in a tote. "Now, if you will excuse me, I'm doing some very important work."

At that, a malevolent grin flashed across Dante's face, his brown eyes narrowing. His dark skin came off almost sickly under the pale office lights as he adjusted, raising a hand to rest against the side of his face, palm against his cheek. Raising his other hand, he waved his pointer finger aimlessly. "A little birdie told us that one of yous messed up and leaked some important info. To my knowledge, you're going to be replaced either way," an eager grin crossed his face. "Frankly, it's a real nice promotion on my end," snapping his fingers, he pointed his finger at Weaver, before directing it at Alpha. "Tell me, asset, does he seem dirty to you?"

Peter hadn't detected a lie in his words, and while his heartbeat was erratic, there was only trepidation at such a deadly killer being in the room. But against his own will, his body moved, snaking a knife out of his belt. Before he could really even process it, the knife was buried in Alpha's chest, hitting the heart, before quickly being ripped out, spun around, and sunk into Dante's head. Both let out surprised grunts, before slumping in their seats, eyes glazing over as their life bled out in steady crimson drips. The assassin ran the knife against the dark red sleeves of his outfit, before pocketing the knife. It was then that Peter's brain registered what had happened, and he felt a quiet nausea rise inside his stomach at the sight. The scent of blood was one he would never get used to, and he closed his eyes, using the privacy of the office to clench his fists and let his mask slide for just a second. But, he quickly collected himself, turning to automatically look through all of Alpha's files and folders. None were the missing ones, as Peter suspected.

It saddened Peter that they didn't really need to die. Any of them, for that matter. But he couldn't disobey a direct order even if he wanted to; it was programmed into his subconscious to follow it. And one of those orders had been Protocol Masquerade; the protocol he despised the most. It was their code word to let Peter know who his targets were without another uneducated person learning who it was. The protocol was simple. Leave no survivors. Ace's intent was never to let these right hand people take over; it was to kill anyone who had the potential to be corrupted, besides his direct handlers, who had absolutely no reasons to turn dirty. It made his chest fill with black tar at the thought. Because one of the informants went against the given rules, all of them had to be killed. How many of them had families, and lives outside of this hell? Sure, they were HYDRA, and his captors. But their loved ones weren't likely to know of the dirty deeds they were committing behind their backs. They deserved justice, not release for their crimes by murder.

As he walked out of the room, the mutant couldn't help but feel helpless yet again when facing his situation. No one should've ever been subjected to something as despicable as this, especially a young child carefully crafted and molded into a mindless killing machine. Well... _almost_ mindless. They didn't know he still retained some of his old self, and as far as Peter was concerned, they never _would_ learn. As long as he played the part well (and, well, sometimes he didn't even have to play; his body did it for him), they would be none the wiser. He couldn't risk another tweaking. He would lose everything he's fought hard to keep as the smallest semblance of himself. He had nothing else to hold onto but the smallest victory that they hadn't yet killed off Peter Parker.

* * *

He hesitated for the smallest second as Carmen worked to open the door to Omen's space, a bit dizzy from the overwhelming stench of blood clinging to his outfit, hidden by the dark colors. This was the second to last of them, before Coin; the one Peter was dreading the most to encounter due to his kindness. He had already visited the other five. After Alpha and Dante had been Fox and Beaver, who went down even easier than he had honestly thought. Quincy and Paprika had known it was coming and had actually made his job easier by disposing of themselves (though it rattled him how willing they were to kill themselves. Were they looking forward to the day they could be freed from their positions in HYDRA? He didn't know). Leaf had to help him corner Yarrow, and Chartreuse had actually taken out Mahogany in arrogance, thinking she would take the position herself and not realizing no one would be left in the end. Peter wasn't too sure how much Carmen knew, though he had gathered she was intelligent enough to know what was unspoken about him returning with no one and the copper scent that clung to his clothing.

With a jostle, the room opened to Omen's, and both stepped in. The lights were off, the blinds closed, the room draped in shadows. But Peter's night vision was in full effect as his eyes took in the scene. It seemed someone had already beat them to the punch. Omen was a Polynesian woman of great intimidation and power, yet she had made her fair share of enemies, which was evident by the three corpses in the room already. Two attackers and the businesswoman herself, covered in blood that had broken their confines through the bullet wounds that adorned their bodies. Picking up one of the guns, he noted with interest they were his design, with a silencer he had implemented to catch bullet casings so they wouldn't fall on the ground after firing. It was a bit curious that they had clearly been intending to take out the confidant then escape. They clearly doubted the woman's skills. It was almost a shame she had to be taken out so gracelessly, though Peter was secretly thankful it was one less person's blood on his hands.

Moving into the room without a sound, he moved past the bodies without so much as a glance, rifling through the documents. He was interested to note that one of the files containing information on him were indeed in the room; though it was clearly a copy, since the words were still legible and hadn't been eroded by direct exposure to oxygen like most of them should've been. She only had the one, though, which wasn't nearly what she should've had. That told Peter that she had clearly had someone else who she had pawned the files off onto... or, more accurately, an accomplice she had gotten one of the files from. She shouldn't have had access to the files, after all. No, the only one who did was... Coin. The realization clicked in Peter's head, accompanied by a feeling on unease. What had Coin been doing with his files, and why had he given a piece of it to Omen? Were the two of them working together? What were they working on that involved his information? He couldn't help but feel both a sense of panic and relief. Panic at what they could've been doing with it, but relief that it seemed someone clearly wanted the information for something that was definitely outside of HYDRA's desires. They would never authorize the taking of his information, as evidenced by the purge he was being ordered to do. Did that mean that Coin was someone not truly loyal to the ancient organization? Peter was curious to find out more.

Carmen snapped him out of his thoughts by picking up the folder of information, giving it a rather wry smile. She placed it in his hands, tapping it. Then, she brushed a stray bang out of her face, tired eyes fixing on his lenses. "I suppose we now know where it went, huh?" she said, voice calm. Peter felt a pang dart through his chest at her tone. She was scared, but the determination in her voice spoke wonders of her thoughts. She knew she was going to die and was unafraid. It made him jealous of her conviction. She walked over to the door, flashing him a small smile. "You get that to your handlers. I'll take care of Utaka," she paused on the doorframe, a small frown on her face. A decided look of "fuck it" crossed her face before she turned to face him. "Look... I'll be honest. I don't have a lot of time left. I knew getting into this business would kill me, and I was perfectly fine with it. I had nothing left to lose," letting out a sigh, she stared at Omen's body with a sad glance. "Omen and Coin... they were SHIELD agents that pretended to be HYDRA when they were exposed to keep an eye on things here. And I... I was one of their reformed confidants. They taught me I could use my skills for something... better."

She walked over to him, a small frown on her face as she once again touched the folder, before gently flipping it open. Peter felt his breath catch in his throat as he realized it had redacted information on his identity. She traced her fingers on all of the blacked out lines. "We... couldn't discern much on who you actually are. They're careful, your handlers. But we've been here long enough to note some key things," Carmen's expression turned bitter as she gave him a once-over. "For example... you can't be older than sixteen. We haven't heard your voice or seen your face, and the information on your age is missing, but... we were able to fill in the pieces. You were brought in ten and a half years ago, right? Yet your build, height, and weight indicate someone who hasn't fully developed yet," her tone was sad and clipped as she muttered, "And from some of the logs of your... tweaking... that we were able to find, you were clearly inexperienced. I can't imagine what they put you through..."

Peter said nothing, not trusting the moment enough to break the vow of silence that he'd kept strong for eight long years, ever since they deemed Peter Parker gone from his body. But he couldn't help but feel breathless at this revelation, shocked into rigidity. He hadn't known what was going on in the background, of course. The mutant couldn't believe his luck. Some of the people who knew about him were _SHIELD?_ That meant that they had been reporting information on him to the good guys, right? Who knew about him now, then? Were they working to rescue him? How long had they been doing this?

As if reading his thought process, Carmen let out a choked laugh. "We weren't able to do anything for years. It was... frustrating. We hadn't even been able to _see_ you, let alone get much information regarding you. It took Coin years to gain their trust enough to become their file keeper. And Omen... she had to pull a lot of strings to get the attention off of him so he could retrieve the files," she let out a relieved breath at that. "We knew the time had come when they ordered the hit on the Avengers. It was lucky it coincided so well with us being able to sneak away enough information to make it worth it." Carmen let out a shaky breath at that, her voice and conviction wavering. "I don't know who you really are, and I wasn't sure of it before. But, seeing you now, how you're inaction is reaction enough, I can tell... you're actually aware of what I'm saying," she let out a relieved laugh at that. "Which means they didn't _win,_ because _some_ part of you must exist in order to even want to listen to what I'm giving you instead of killing me. That's... that's a relief, to be honest. We were worried for the longest time that there was nothing left to salvage... that they had succeeded in turning you into a mindless killing machine."

Peter set the folder down, his hands suddenly slack. Was he... was he that easy to read? With a small frown, he let his hand hover over the table, before coming to a decision. He tapped his fingers quietly against the desk, taking a pause every now and again. As part of his training, he had learned morse code. He hadn't ever had to use it to communicate before, though. His gaze never left Carmen's stormy blue eyes as he punched in his remark. I-M S-T-I-L-L H-E-R-E, he tapped. He was tempted to add _barely,_ but refrained.

At that, the woman visibly brightened, a choked sob leaving her lips. "I wonder how wonderful a person you could've been had none of this happened. You were willing to find a loophole in your vow just to assure me that what we were doing was right," she sniffed, reaching a hand back to pull her hair out of the loose ponytail it was in. Her dark brown hair cascaded to her shoulders. "You won't find Coin here. I imagine you won't tell Hornet, Scrappy, or Ace about any of this. They expect you won't break your vow of communications, after all," she grabbed one of the pistols off of the ground, checking the silencer and readjusting it. "Thank god. Look... whoever you are... Coin, Omen, and I have worked hard for this opportunity. I know it might freak you out to try and accept the help, but please, don't fight this. You deserve it."

Peter frowned under the mask, and tapped out, W-H-A-T O-P-P-O-R-T-U-N-I-T-Y?

Carmen walked back to the door, one hand resting on the doorknob, the other on the trigger of the gun. She gave him a final, sad smile. "Freedom and rescue."

With a quick twist, the hidden agent burst out of the door. A thud echoed down the hallway as Utaka went down. She then lifted a hand to give him a wave goodbye, before moving out of the room and grabbing Utaka's body. She moved them over to a window, opening it and propping his body on the edge. She then aimed the gun at her temple and pulled the trigger. Both bodies went over the edge. Peter's heart twisted as he glanced away, trying to not let it rub him the wrong way.

The entire conversation was eye-opening for the assassin. After years of bad luck and cursing his misfortune, it seemed fate was finally smiling on him. The very organization that had infiltrated SHIELD had had the same treatment done right back to them with three agents. Not only had they taken as much information on him as they could, but they had gone to provide him something he had thought intangible. Freedom. Rescue. After nearly ten and a half years of this hell, Peter almost didn't want to believe it. Could they actually pull it off? Who were they going to in order to give him that chance? If he had to guess, it was likely the Avengers. After all, they had waited to act until the hit was made. Chances were they were going to give that information to the famous group of superheroes. For what reason? Did they put their faith in them to amend his situation? Did they think that if they made them aware of his existence, they would be able to miraculously undo ten and a half years of damage?

Could he even trust it? He couldn't rely on anyone but himself. No one was trustworthy. Anyone could turn on him and doom him. Trust was a weakness. Hope was a weakness. Trusting hope was something he couldn't even entertain for the years of hell he'd endured. Besides, what if they weren't as good as appearances gave? They had all done their fair share of questionable things, if the information he'd been given for the hit were any indicator. Beyond that, Ace, Scrappy, and Hornet had pulled out all of the stops to keep him under their thumb. They would be willing to move all of heaven and earth if it meant keeping him as their own personal asset. They had already proven it.

But they had gone through with their infiltration so thoroughly. They truly believed he deserved to be rescued, and thought there was no one better to do it than superheroes. It almost made him want to laugh. No one had come to rescue him before. Why now, after he was already broken beyond repair? Was it because the supposed superheroes weren't even around at the time he'd gone missing to even help, or did they not even know of what was going on under their noses? The killer was more willing to bet on the latter than the former. He wouldn't be surprised if they hadn't assumed a cold missing person's case from nearly ten and a half years before would have the victim still alive. Besides, he was just a young kid from Queens. Sure, his parents had been notable scientists, but his birth hadn't exactly been the largest public knowledge. He knew the chances of rescue were slim, if not nonexistent. That's why he'd given up hope nearly five years ago.

He didn't know what to think, so he wasn't going to. He could worry about it later. He wasn't going to trust anyone but himself. He couldn't afford to. Collecting himself, he moved past the opened window and the sound of murmurs from the ground below as he moved over to the elevator. Running his hand down the sleek metal, he found the hidden button and pressed it. The elevator did a quick scan, before it beeped in confirmation and began moving down to his secret floor. He would deal with this information later. But maybe, he could let a little spark of hope burn inside of his chest. Maybe he could convince the heroes to kill him before HYDRA could get their hands on him again if his hit failed (as he thought it was likely to, since Carmen had implied Coin had gone to let them know). Maybe that would be better than them trying to rescue and redeem him. Peter didn't think he deserved it, after all.

He would have to wait and see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that I've got a tumblr! I'm also open to suggestions for what you guys want to happen in the story! Also, would you guys want a discord server? This story is gonna be going for a while and it would definitely make it easier for y'all to keep in contact with me.
> 
> Next time on OWOW: A little information gathering goes south.


	4. Subversion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New discoveries lead to more complicated plans, it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always feel a bit bad for not being able to update a lot lately. Sorry! Enjoy the chapter!

As the elevator came to a stop, Peter felt a tug in his chest that came from the dried blood he could still feel coating his arms. He squeezed his eyes quickly shut beneath the mask, the visors following suit, before he quickly opened them again and resumed a neutral stance. He needed to keep a brave face. So, when the doors opened, he stepped out, feeling a mounting pressure building in his head at whatever his handlers might have him do next. He got the feeling it wouldn't be good, whatever it was.

His eyes immediately caught on to the last of his handlers. Scrappy seemed to be on the phone, talking with someone. Hornet was tweaking with the despicable whistle. Ace was thumbing through the leftover gear, seemingly searching them for imperfections. At the sound of the elevator stopping, all three turned to stare at him. Scrappy grinned, ending the call, then destroying the burner phone. "Ah, there ya are. 'Was wonderin' when ya would return," he rubbed his hands together. "Just got word ya completed the task like asked."

Ace gave a nod to that, before quirking a brow. "Seeing as you have no one accompanying you, I assume you handled the protocol well," he said smoothly, adjusting his tie. Gesturing to a white board that sat off to the side and a dry erase marker, he remarked, "I hope you found where the folders went? You may let us know."

Taking his queue and noting that they were granting him permission to temporarily break the vow, he carefully grabbed the white board, before taking the cap off of the marker. He quickly and efficiently wrote, 'Omen and Coin were compromised. Omen is deceased, Coin is missing.' Then he capped the marker, setting it down on the table with the white board, before stepping back and standing at attention.

They took a few moments to look it over, before nodding. Hornet picked up the white board, erased the words, then set it aside in an incinerator. The scent of burning plastic filled the room momentarily. Hornet wiped his gloves off, before pulling the whistle he'd pocketed back out, then glanced at Ace, silently questioning if they needed to use the whistle. The head handler simply shook his head. The dreaded whistle was put away, to Peter's relief. Hornet instead put his hands in his pockets, shifting so he was leaning against the wall, almost looking like he itched to light a cigarette but wouldn't dare do so down here. "So, that answers that, then," he murmured gruffly.

Ace stroked his chin, nodding. "I assume Omen and Coin's associates were also killed," he let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, before slamming the other fist on the table, startling the two other handlers but getting no reaction from the assassin. "Dammit. He likely went to the Avengers with that information."

Scrappy's nose scrunched in distaste. "Those damn supaheroes can't get their grubby noses outta HYDRA business, can they?" he shuffled on his feet, beginning to pace as he ran a hand through his mussy hair. "What'a we gon' do? They a'ready got us once. They a'ready got our otha asset. We worked too hard ta lose this 'ne, too."

Hornet nodded, huffing a breath. "We haven't been able to recover from the whole mess with the Triskelion yet, either. Clearly we weren't the only ones with embedded spies. Damn SHIELD and Fury for covering their tracks," clicking his tongue, he stuck a match end in his mouth instead of a cigar. "Coin blabs our asset to the heroes and we lose any chance of getting rid of them and being able to grow from the chaos."

Ace sighed, perching on the edge of the table. "What a mess. Who knows what he'll alert them to? He's got as many of the files as he could get his hands on." Grunting, he rolled his eyes. "They'll know of the hit..." his eyes suddenly brightened as he seemed to have an epiphany. A dark grin crossed his face. "...but maybe that's exactly what we need."

The other two perked up, and Peter felt curiosity bloom in his chest. He wondered what his head handler had realized, and with a bit of tension, he realized he genuinely couldn't tell. He'd learned how to read faces, how to pick up on inflections, could tell if someone was lying easily, could know what they were thinking by what expression they wore. But his handlers had always been wild cards, and Ace was the worst of them. He could never tell what the man was thinking. It always unnerved him to no end that his abilities were practically useless against his captors.

Scrappy's crazed eyes looked delighted at the news as he clapped his hands together. "I never doubted ya for a sec, Ace," he crowed, and Peter had to stop from rolling his eyes at how the rat-like man was always ready to kiss ass. "Would ya care ta enlighten us ta ya'r plans?"

Ace stood, a confident and smug look on his features. Adjusting the cufflinks of his suit and turning them to a more favorable position, he flashed them a coy grin. "Them knowing will work in our favors. The files speak nothing of our asset's true identity, nor the full extent of his abilities- though the latter is more simply because even we don't know the fullest of his capabilities," he stared at the file for the Avengers that was still sitting on the desk, opening it to stare daggers at the image. "If they're made aware of the hit, and of the things Weaver has accomplished... they might try to 'rescue' him," with a malicious smile, he snagged a spare knife and stabbed it down into the image with triumph. "That's where we'll get them."

Hornet quirked a brow. "So, we go through with the hit anyways, and let him get caught?"

"Of course," Ace said, straightening and turning to face the others. "They'll try doing what they did with our other asset. Unfortunately for them, there's nothing left for them to rescue. He's not who he used to be; he's been our unerring asset for years now. There's no way they can fix what's been so... thoroughly broken. We've made sure of that."

The old Peter might've laughed at the irony, but the old Peter wasn't supposed to exist. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them. He'd been keeping his little spot of freedom in his mind secret for years, now; the mutant wasn't about to prove them wrong and give them reason to do the last bit of tweaking they would need to in order to fully get rid of his little bit of agency. They weren't entirely wrong; he definitely was not who he used to be, he'd been doing what they wanted for years, and he was terribly broken. He didn't think he'd even be able to _trust_ any help. Not when he'd been devoid of such a pleasure for so long.

Scrappy cupped a hand to his chin, before nodding. "I see. Ya're gonna have Weaver here go ahead with the hit anyways, then use him from the inside ta catch 'em off guard."

The head handler hummed in agreement. "All Weaver would need to do after his hit goes purposefully awry would be to use Protocol Veil to signal when their guard is down. Then, we strike with the leftover Winter Soldiers. Lucky for us that we managed to get our hands on them before the Avengers could fully do away with them. They're still pretty banged up, though... they're not the best option. However, I'm sure even broken Winter Soldiers will provide enough of a distraction." Ace furrowed his brow, clicking his tongue. "There's always the chance it could go wrong, but that's always the inevitable. If anything, we lose another asset that they cannot do anything with that has orders to take them out whenever he can," he shrugged. "And at best, we have six super soldiers that should be more than enough to do them in."

Hornet let out a laugh at that. "Impressive, Ace. This is why you've been able to keep him in the wood works for so long."

Ace smirked at that. "Thank you," his cold gaze turned to Weaver, and the smile dropped. "Let's input the commands, then."

With a nod, Hornet fished the whistle from his pocket. Peter had only a second to brace himself for the piercing agony that the instrument rattled into his head, and he felt himself slacking, face growing impassive. The agonizing noise dwindled after a few seconds more, and he straightened, ready to comply. Noting this, the whistle moved from Hornet's lips, and Ace grinned. "Weaver, you are to continue with the assigned hit on the Avengers. If you succeed, that will be fantastic. However, if you fail, you are to be on standby. When you see that their defenses are down, you will alert us through Protocol Veil. The other Winter Soldiers will then break in, and all of you are to cooperate on taking down the Avengers or die trying. If you live, you will return here for orders." Then, he stepped away, signalling to Hornet that no more needed to be added. The whistle blew in two quick bursts, releasing Peter from its spell.

Scrappy let out a snicker as he eyed the photo hungrily. "Those bastards don't know what's comin' ta them. We'll show 'em what 'appens when ya mess with HYDRA."

Hornet grinned. "This'll certainly be interesting."

Ace nodded, walking closer to the door. "This should be rather eventful. You're free to leave, Weaver," he turned to his companions. "I suppose we better go deal with the aftermath of the purge. Hail HYDRA."

The two remarked, "Hail HYDRA!" then followed the head handler out.

When they left, Peter felt like he could breathe again. He stumbled a bit, hand instinctively going to cup his temple while the other caught on the table, propping himself up. His breath rattled in his lungs as he comprehended the input, eyes squinted beneath the mask. Looks like he didn't really have much of a choice, huh? With a silent groan, he stared at his gear, before putting it together and on his person. Regret bubbled beneath his skin as his eyes flashed to Carmen's face. _I'm sorry, Carmen,_ he lamented, letting out a breath. _Unless there's some magical way to break free of the command... I won't even get the chance to even consider the opportunity._

As he left up the elevator, donned in supplies to go do the hit, he couldn't help but feel a resigned sadness filling his being. The situation was out of his hands; the only way this ended for him was either if he succeeded in the hit with the other soldiers, or perished in the onslaught... unless there was a way he could work beyond the programming to either stop himself from spilling, or somehow thwart their plans and let the Avengers know the soldiers were coming. Though, considering he had yet to actually succeed at fully breaking their commands, he doubted he would get lucky enough to gain that opportunity. Then again, he didn't really know what the superhero team was capable of. Peter could only hope there would be some form of out that would result in some happy ending. Even if said happy ending ended with him bleeding his life out on the ground.

* * *

They all sat around the table, the larger group huddling on the couches to all fit. It was a bit of a tight fit, but they managed to make it work with Clint and Scott sitting on the arm rests at the ends. Tony could practically _taste_ the tension in the air, and it wasn't made better by him sitting sandwiched between Steve and Natasha. He couldn't remember the last time he'd such a serious look on the ex-assassin's face, and there was something in Steve's eyes that made Tony hesitant to hear what the embedded agent had to offer. He had a sinking feeling that whatever they were about to learn would be something the leader would want to blame on himself, if Tony didn't blame himself first. The engineer clasped his hands together, urging them to stop shaking so his nervousness wouldn't be nearly as notable.

Bruce returned to the group, carrying a coffee and a coaster for their guests that were sitting on chairs facing the opposite of the long couch, setting both carefully on the table. "You looked exhausted, so I figured this would perk you up. I found it works wonders for most of us here." The scientist explained with an anxious smile, tugging at the ends of his sleeves before taking the last available spot on the end of the couch, squeezing in between Scott and Sam.

"Thank you," Agent Faulers said, blowing on it before taking a gracious sip. With a breath, he set the mug on the coaster, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose with the hand not shackled to the suitcase that was now sitting at his side. "You're not wrong. I've been up for just over thirty-two hours now," he cast a glance to the suitcase. "I couldn't rest when I had such a small operating time. As soon as I took these out of their hands, it was only a matter of time before they discovered they were gone. I traveled 5,471 miles to ensure this information got into your possession."

Sam quirked a brow in surprise at that. "That's some serious dedication to a mission," he remarked, placing his elbows on his knees and propping his head on his folded hands. "You came from overseas?"

FRIDAY chimed, "From my estimates, he traveled here from Siberia, Russia."

The double agent seemed momentarily surprised, before he gave a nod. "Yep, your AI's correct," he ran his free hand through his hair, collapsing back into the couch cushions tiredly. "It would've been the normal 10 hour flight if Fury hadn't been able to send a nearby Quinjet to my aid. It's a wonder of technology, really. It was definitely annoying to have to fly there to grab the folders, though. Would've been easier if they kept everything in one place."

Tony felt a flicker of annoyance spike through him. "You're getting off-topic," he leaned forward, pointing at the suitcase and raising an eyebrow. "I feel talking about 'HYDRA's deadliest asset' is more important to us than what your last few hours were like, 007."

Faulers let out a small chuckle. "I wouldn't dare think myself to be James Bond, Mr. Stark," he remarked, though his face once more grew serious as he seemingly materialized a key from out of nowhere. With a tentative frown, he remarked, "Can you have your AI get rid of any and all natural light?" then, when there was a notable pause, he added, "The ink we used to write this information dissolves in direct contact with sunlight. Unless you want to lose it all, it might be best to close whatever blinds you have. For that matter, we'll want to keep liquids away from these, too."

Tony let out a sigh, raising a hand and waving it at the ceiling. "You catch that, FRI?"

"On it, boss." FRIDAY chirped. Big, heavy blinds closed over all of the windows, completely blocking all natural light. The lights brightened to accommodate such a change.

Giving a satisfied nod, the agent carefully opened the suitcase. Inside was a plethora of carefully kept folders, dating back nearly ten and a half years. The scripted words were careful and easy to read, but seemingly illegible due to the letters all being mixed up. Holding up one that was titled, _'HLNGLD 003 - UPNZRBPKZML KY JLIGIYIRW,'_ he tipped his head, scanning the words. "Did you use a cipher?"

The agent nodded. "These were originally kept in a fictional language, but when it became too difficult to record all of the information in that language, they opted to a cipher on my suggestion instead. I translated all of the information into this cipher with my partner, Agent Kahale. She went by 'Omen' in their presence," with a sudden frown, he added, "...though I imagine Agent Kahale and Agent Last are compromised. It's a shame... they both worked hard to help me accomplish this very thing."

Nick placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "When we take them down, we'll hold a memorial in their memories."

Faulers gave a nod, a sad glint in his eyes. "It's now in Bellaso Cipher. Keyword was SPIDER, the full English alphabet was used, 5 alphabets were used, the shift between each was 2, and the key to the alphabets was ASSET," he gave a wry smile. "We didn't want to make it terribly complex for us to crack once we were able to get it out to someone else. It had to be enough to fool them that it was encrypted enough, though."

Steve gave a nod. "FRIDAY, would you be able to scan each of the files and decrypt them?"

"Of course," the AI remarked, and a near invisible blue light landed on the pile of folders. A few moments passed before a beep alerted them that FRIDAY was finished. "Scrambling," she stated, and after another minute, a directory of folders displayed in a hologram. "Here you are. The files have been decrypted."

"Ah, that's a lot easier than going through each of them by hand, I suppose," the agent remarked, placing the stray folders back in the suitcase. He stood, walking over to the sink. "I'll dispose of these real quick. They dissolve in water, so it should only take a moment." The sink turned on, and the man proceeded to dump each of the carefully written folders in the sink. They began to shrivel up and dissipate, until there was eventually nothing left. Turning the water off, he set the suitcase on the counter, then returned to the chair.

Tony stared at the folder that had appeared in front of him, which, doing a quick check, happened to be the one he had grabbed. A sick feeling twisted in his stomach as he read the unscrambled title of, _'WEAVER 003 - CALIBRATION OF PROTOCOLS.'_ Clicking his tongue, he quickly began to speed-read through the information. The more he learned, the darker the feeling in his gut got. "What... what _is_ all of this?" he asked rhetorically, feeling at a loss for words as he read over all of the assigned keywords and their meanings. One that had him especially sickened was one named, _'Protocol Raze'_ , which had the input, _'When protocol is issued, subject will use given tools to destroy everything within specifications.'_ The mechanic could only _wonder_ what they would use such a thing for, and hoped it had never been used. That type of command could enable Weaver to do a complete homicide and destroy anything else that might've been in the way. It was scary to think that they'd programmed such an inevitability.

Faulers let out a quiet sigh as he watched each of the Avengers snag a hologram of a folder, glancing through it. Their growing looks of horror felt rather nostalgic to when he, Kahale, and Last had first gotten their hands on this information, as well. He stood, taking a casual glance at wherever the hero was on the file to tell which one they were looking at. "Let's see... Scott's looking at the 'Creation Logs', Bruce is examining the 'Medical Records', Sam's studying the 'Hits Catalog', Wanda's staring at the 'Abilities' file, Vision's viewing the 'Tweaking Accommodations List', Barnes's got his hands on the 'Modifications', Natasha's snagged the 'Programming Log', Tony's taken the 'Calibration of Protocols', Steve has the 'General' file, Rhodes's glancing at the 'Subject Logs' file, and Clint's handling the 'Test Procedures' document," the man listed, pursing his lips. "You don't need to read through it all right now if your AI already has it in the database. Right now, we should focus on some of the more, ah... vital information."

Steve paused from his reading, looking like he was torn between a grimace and a frown. With a sigh, he waved the hologram over to the agent. "Very well. We'll... peruse these in more detail later.

At that, the others all paused from their own files to send it over to the agent, who caught them and seemed to organize them by their numbers. "You've already caught a glimpse of how, ah... disturbing these could be. I'll spare a lot more of the crude information for your own discretionary reading," he enlarged the first folder, titled, _'WEAVER 001 - GENERAL INFORMATION'._ He stared at the listed information for a few moments before saying, "Most of the information on this document was redacted before we even got our hands on it, and it appeared to have been rewritten numerous times," he pursed his lips, pointing to the various lines on the file. "It seems like when he originally came here, they had written his actual name, age, relations, and place of residence, but they've all since been disposed," with a frown, he added, "which leads me to believe that this was re-purposed. Chances are this used to be the file they used when planning on obtaining their asset in the first place; otherwise, the information wouldn't have needed to be redacted, since it wouldn't have been written in the first place. But some things can be assumed from it. Considering how long he's been in their grasp, he's either someone proclaimed dead or missing, with either no relatives left alive or uncaring of what happened to him. From what I saw of him, and how long he's been with them, he can't be any older than eighteen, if I'm being generous."

Tony glanced at the information with a curious eye, noting how much had been taken away. With a frown, he gestured to the _Blood Type_ line. "The information there seems confused," he said, pointing to the two types listed. "Why was the O- changed to an AB-?"

Faulers clicked his tongue, gaze turned away. "Because at birth that's all the hospital was able to identify, and the mutant gene changed how his blood functioned. I imagine it isn't actually AB-, but was identified as such thanks to the mutagenic changes his body underwent," he seemed to stare at another file momentarily. "I believe the covered the information in the Medical Records, so it might be better to answer it in further depth there."

Bruce seemed to perk up slightly. "I already read that," he said, shuffling in his seat. "It seems they changed it to AB- because they determined the change at the molecular level changed his blood cells as well, so he was unable to receive or give blood without... disastrous results," he turned to stare at the floor. "According to the record, when he lost a lot of blood and they attempted a transfusion, the body violently rejected it, though it shouldn't have, since it was another O-. They got curious after that, and when he was healed, they gave another person _his_ blood. All it said on mine was that the other patient didn't survive."

Clint raised his hand for a few seconds. "The rest of that was listed in mine," he frowned. "The poor guy's body didn't take well to it. It was like a virus. Ate up the guy's blood cells and caused the other guy to also get spider powers momentarily, before his entire body short-circuited and died."

"That's grim," Scott remarked, scrunching his nose.

Faulers pursed his lips, rubbing an arm. "It wasn't pretty," he said in a tone that told them it was the end of the discussion. "All you really need to be aware of from _'General Information'_ is that his code-name is Weaver, and he's been with them for nearly ten and a half years."

Wanda seemed to shudder, casting a glance at Bucky. "Being with HYDRA for even a short time was bad for me, and I can't imagine what it was like for you," she murmured to the former Winter Soldier, who simply responded with a sad, knowing smile. "I can't imagine what it would be like to... to be with them for so long."

Bucky's eyes turned dark, his sad smile morphing into a frown. He absentmindedly rubbed at the prosthetic arm. "...Not fun, I can definitely say that. The things they can do to a human mind and body are... horrendous."

Faulers let out a grim laugh at that, nodding. "I've read the files they had on you while I was there, Bucky," he murmured, and a dark, sad look crossed his eyes. "They learned from their mistakes with you."

Tony and Steve exchanged a look, before the latter leaned forward. "What do you mean by that?"

Clicking his tongue, the agent pulled up several of the files at once, displaying them. "They didn't need to keep him in cryostasis, for one. He was born a mutant as well, so all they had to do was train the abilities already there," he brought up one titled, _'WEAVER 007 - SUBJECT LOGS',_ before enlarging it, scrolling until he found what he was looking for, highlighting it. "They were... a lot more thorough with him when the realized the holes in their other assets," he glanced at the group. "Any time he messed up, even a bit, they would rectify his mistake with a punishment. They also wouldn't allow him to speak since they realized cooperation didn't need words, but action. They likely got rid of anything and everything connected to him outside of HYDRA. They made sure there were as little loose ends as they could," he let out a sigh at that. "...which means the chances of there even being something left to rescue are... a bit slimmer than would be preferable. But I'm... I'm optimistic. We won't know until we try."

Natasha nodded a bit at that, before shooting a soft glance at Bucky. "Well, it already worked with one of them," she said, lightly punching his shoulder. "It wouldn't hurt us to try."

The agent grinned softly at that. "I hoped you would say that," his face grew serious as he added, "The hit was ordered late yesterday, so... there's still a bit of time before Weaver arrives," he stared at the holographic files a moment before adding, "And you're going to need all the information you can get on him."

Scott tilted his head curiously. "So... how deadly _is_ this kid?"

With an almost amused look, Faulers pulled up the next file, titled, _'Hits Catalog'_. "You were looking at this earlier, Sam, so I'm sure you've already gotten a little look at what the outlook is?"

The said man frowned, eyebrows scrunched. "We saw some of the footage from the hit yesterday, but not much," a deep sigh left his chest as he settled further against the couch cushions. "What I did see from that file, though, wasn't exactly ensuring."

Faulers nodded, enlarging the file and highlighting some of it. "He has performed over 2,000 hits in the ten and a half years he's been with them," he murmured, slowly beginning to scroll down the list so they could see. "The first twenty-one, which were spaced out in the first three years, resulted in either mistakes or failures as they were 'polishing' their 'weapon'," he said, a slight frown on his face. "And nine of the hits were against one or more enhanced." The agent cleared his throat, before gesturing to the check-mark next to the item listing. "All of which were eventually rectified."

The few ex-assassins in the room leaned forward, morbid curiosity getting the better of them. Natasha's arms were folded on her lap, and her head was lightly lilted to the side. "If it weren't logged and recorded, I would think you were _joking_ about that kill count."

Tony brushed his fingers along his stubbled jaw, a frown on his features. "He's been with them roughly 3,786 days and the kill count is _over_ 2,000?" the inventor asked incredulously. "That's, what, one person killed every two days or so?"

The double agent blinked curiously. "Oh, no, the _kill_ count is higher than that," he said, a hint of amusement on his features. "Most of the hits as time went on gained more and more people. The largest he took was a hit on a mafioso group that got in the way of HYDRA operations and pissed them off because they went back on a deal the two groups had struck up. By the time the cops arrived, twenty-three armed men were found in a maelstrom of blood and destruction." To emphasize his point, he scrolled until he found said hit and brought it up. "And that was two years ago."

The look the team shared was one of barely masked worry. Rhodey leaned forward. "And you're saying someone you think is a _kid_ did all that?"

The man the question was directed to simply nodded. "I kept track of all of his hits once I joined, and they made it policy that he always brought proof from each of the required targets that the job was done."

Scott pursed his lips. "That's terrifying. If he's as young as you think he is, or even younger, and was born with those abilities... it's unnerving to think of how strong a weapon he could become as a fully grown adult."

The group paused at that thought, and Fury, who had been quiet the entire time, finally added, "I imagine it might be similar to Ms. Romanoff and Mr. Barnes, at minimum. At worst... let's just say that him staying in their hands would be disastrous for any longer than it's gone on," he stood, fixing his one-eyed gaze on the team. "The potential threat this asset gives can have disastrous repercussions in the future, especially considering said asset is under HYDRA, who we thought to be fully gone and wiped out," he let out a small sigh, standing tall and rigid, arms folded behind his back. "Which is why getting Weaver away from HYDRA is a top priority. Once he's in our custody, we can deal with the smaller things later. But, regardless of what happens..." he paused, as though contemplating what he wanted to say and whether it would be received well. "Once retrieved, he _cannot_ fall back into the grasp. No matter the cost."

Frowning, Vision remarked, "Pardon me, sir," he said politely, a curious look on his face. "Am I correct in my assumption that those costs would even include killing the asset?"

"It would be unfortunate if it ever came to that, but... it would be a mercy to both us and him in the long run to let him die than let him go back into HYDRA's hands. At least, in death, he cannot be used as a weapon any longer."

Wanda frowned at that, knitting her hands together. "So if we had no choice, you want us to kill what could possibly be a minor," she said, voice flat, thinking of her dead twin brother and the pang of grief that shot through her at the remembrance of the young life lost.

"I never said it would be easy," Fury added, though he, too, had a frown on. "Nor painless. And I hope that it is something that doesn't need to be used," his resolved gaze fixed each of his Avengers in turn. "But if it comes down to it and there is no other option left, it will need to be done. Is that clear?"

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group as they contemplated the order. Would they really have to resort to killing someone who likely had no will in what he was doing just for the sake of everyone else's lives? It was unfair that that could possibly be the cost. Lives shouldn't be traded, and saving as many people as they could was always a top priority for the superhero team. But they knew the likelihood of having to kill HYDRA's asset was likely. After all, they had two ex-assassins on the team, one of which had been a former HYDRA asset and had been hard to fix. If what was stated happened to be true, and they had done even more things to Weaver, was there even the possibility of them being able to _save_ someone that could be too far gone?

Finally, though, the group finally gave a begrudging nod, though they all silently vowed that it would be a last-minute resort _only._ They would try their damnedest to keep Weaver out of HYDRA's hands once they got him and try to fix him just as they did Bucky. They wouldn't give up until there was nothing left to do. They owed it to the poor soul they couldn't be around to save before. How could they call themselves Avengers if they didn't avenge this injustice?

Seeing their determination, the former SHIELD director had a ghost of a smile. "Glad to see you are all determined to give this kid a second chance and beat HYDRA at their own game again, then," he mused. "Good. He's bound to be coming any day now, and is likely aware we know. We need to remain vigilant. We underestimated them before; HYDRA was a subversion. Be prepared for anything to happen," his eye seemed filled with a quiet pride despite the words leaving his lips. "If they know we know and want to try planting him as a sleeper agent until they can come strike us when we're unprepared, we'll let them. We can play at their game as long as it takes to take their assassin from their grasp... and hopefully fix what they broke." Fury cracked his knuckles. "I believe we've got a long road ahead of us. But if we play our cards right, we might land a new member of the team. So..." he tipped his head. "Are you stepping up, or not?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few words!
> 
> 1) Letting you guys know that this will actually be part of a series because I realized rewriting the entirety of Phase 3 of the MCU in this AU is probably gonna go longer than just one story, so... only Captain America: Civil War and Spider-Man: Homecoming (possibly Doctor Strange and Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 depending on how this goes as well) will be nested under this particular title. Depending on how the rest of it goes, the sequel will definitely be composed of at least Avengers: Infinity War, and might have Thor: Ragnarok and Black Panther depending on how it goes. If the sequel goes on a bit long, then Ant-Man and the Wasp, Captain Marvel, Avengers: Endgame, and Spider-Man: Far From Home might be in a third one. Honestly, it'll all depend on where this AU goes and what I decide to change!
> 
> 2) I'm open to suggestions for what you guys want to see going forward for this story! My writing style is akin to storyboarding, which means that my narrative allows me to take in suggestions from others and find a way to incorporate them! I won't be adding all, of course, though, but I will try working in everything I can!
> 
> 3) Reminder that there's now a tumblr where I'll be posting updates! However, if you guys would want more frequent updates, would you guys want a Discord server? And if so, would you want it to be a general server (so one with both SOTR and this story) or one for just OWOW?
> 
> Next time on OWOW: The inevitable fight breaks out.


	5. Jailbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is in for some big surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends. :D There has been an important edit to the first chapter on details for the story!
> 
> There is also a Discord for this story! If you want the invite early, send me a PM! Otherwise, from now on, the invite will be included at the bottom AN just above the 'Next Time' segment.

A few days had gone by since Faulers' visit to the Compound, and since then, the atmosphere in the building had been mounting in tension as the team of superheroes waited for the other side to make a move. They all tried to go about pretending everything was business as normal, but there was a caution to everything they did that spoke of their apprehension of the coming days. It wouldn't be remiss to see them looking out the windows when they passed one, checking their surroundings when they moved to new spaces, keeping some form of protection on them at all times. Needless to say the wait had started to make them a tad paranoid

They'd fallen into a subconscious routine without ever really speaking of it. They'd take turns checking and double checking everything, validating the defenses, what they had to work with, any minuscule update on their surroundings. During the silence, they'd all at some point read everything the files had to offer to glean as much information on the imminent threat as they could so they'd be able to best neutralize Weaver. Part of their edginess was caused by anger at HYDRA for everything they'd read, and while most had sworn off killing, even they were feeling the blood-lust. Those who'd had similar experiences were feeling especially vengeful, and they could catch glimpses of Natasha spending more time in the firing range than usual, Bucky began spending more late nights in the gym demolishing punching bags, and Vision had done his best to distract Wanda from thinking about her own time with the organization. Steve and Sam had gone on more runs, Tony had spent an awfully long time down in his lab, Scott and Clint had gone to check on their families (needing to verify their safety after they'd perused the files), Rhodey had called and taken some of his saved PTO hours off, Bruce had been preparing medical supplies, T'Challa had Shuri on stand-by monitoring the Compound's systems, and Fury had disappeared for a time to see if Agents Kahale and Last were gone or not, as well as getting Agent Faulers sent back to another mission. However, knowing what was coming, any who did leave the building didn't do it for long, not willing to take the risk of the lurking assassin suddenly catching them off-guard on their own and taking them out.

It was almost April, and the vibrant blossoms on the surroundings trees seemed too cheery for the Compound's sudden change of disposition. Most of the civilians and SHIELD agents there didn't notice much of a change from the Avengers, other than that they seemed more paranoid than they had in a while. The day of March 25th saw most of the superheroes relaxing (of which was mostly just trying to distract themselves from getting too trigger-happy) in the common rooms, playing cards, video games, and reading. That was where Pepper found her boyfriend, sitting on the couch watching a match on the TV between Scott and Clint, and she brushed her hair back before stopping near Tony. "I didn't know you could be so domestic without me," she quipped dryly, though her smile betrayed the sarcasm.

The man in question jerked suddenly, spinning and placing a hand on his chest over the portable reactor there. "Jesus, Pep, you scared me."

At that, the SI CEO frowned. "Didn't FRIDAY tell you I was coming?"

Tony pulled up a nearby interface and checked the notifications, and seeing that his AI had indeed tried to warn him, he scrubbed a palm down his face and made sure FRIDAY was unmuted once again. "I forgot I muted her earlier to take a small nap," he muttered, feeling just as tired as he looked.

Pepper sat next to Tony, taking one of his hands in her own. "You haven't been staying up late in the lab while I was taking care of SI business overseas, were you?"

The man rolled his eyes. "Just one particularly restless night. I've been too jittery to stay in one place long."

"We _all_ have." Sam commented from a nearby armchair, flipping the page of his book. "Then again, that's to be expected when we're waiting to be attacked in our own _home_ by a master assassin."

Eyes wide, the woman fixed Stark with a shocked glance. "How did you manage to get an _assassin_ on you in the five days I was gone?!"

Natasha called, "It's just coincidental timing."

T'Challa was on the phone with Shuri, but cupped the receiver to add, "Unfortunate, too."

As the round ended, Scott blinked up from the game, tipping his head slightly to the side. "Now that you know, do you want to be sticking around us?" The ex-con asked, gesturing to the other heroes. " _We're_ the targets, but you're not. We don't know how this is going to turn out and you don't really have a way to protect yourself if you're seen as an obstacle."

Folding her arms, she remarked, "Explain what's going on first, then I'll consider leaving."

Steve paused his sketching and looked up, stretching from the position he'd been in for the past few hours. "Nick had some guys doing a secret mission for him and the one survivor of it came and warned us that a HYDRA asset had been ordered to kill us and gave us all the information on the kid so we could hopefully succeed in capturing and rescuing him."

Blinking, Pepper queried, "I'm sorry, 'kid'?" she turned to look at the heroes, a feeling of dread building in her stomach. "Does HYDRA have a _kid_ doing their dirty work?"

"As far as the agent was able to conclude, the assassin would've been no older than eighteen and no younger than fourteen." Wanda chipped in, moving away from the game of Go Fish she was teaching Vision, her expression dark. "But we won't know for sure unless we're able to come out of this victorious."

The CEO spotted Nick in the corner, and staring at the man, she began to ask, "Did you know-", but was cut off by a sudden, sharp blare in the room that made everyone jump.

"Foreign presence detected!" FRIDAY called.

Tony stood and everyone around the room followed suit, most instantly arming themselves. "FRIDAY, activate Lockdown Protocols-"

"Boss, I-I'm be-eing ove-r-r-rid-d-" The AI began, but suddenly cut off as the building was plunged into darkness, the emergency generators kicking on and casting an ominous glow over the entire facility. T'Challa quickly told Shuri to see if she could get FRIDAY on again before ending the call and pocketing the phone.

There was only the faintest flicker before the room was plunged into sudden chaos.

* * *

It had been harder than anything else the young mutant had been tasked to hack into before, that was for certain. The assassin had been around the facility for three days after having determined how far the AI's sensors reached, watching everything that went on with his sharp eyes and keen senses, silent as a hawk and using the trees as his own personal shields. He'd occasionally move to a better vantage point with a silent swing or jump, keeping track of the building that never seemed to sleep, and quickly learning what Peter could only determine was a planned schedule. While the Avengers were his only targets, he'd kept close attention of anyone entering or leaving the facility, seeing who and what would be obstacles.

It wasn't too surprising for the asset to see that, if any of his prey left the building, it was never alone and always within range of Stark's personal AI. He'd admit it was clever, and confirmed his suspicions that they knew he was coming. If they went out together, he wasn't likely to strike; and they never went out if any of the numerous civilians weren't doing something outside already. Plenty of witnesses, little opportunities to safely pull off a hit and get away unscathed. Every morning, after the SHIELD agents started drilling on the damp grass, Captain America and the Falcon would go out for a morning jog around the track, steering clear of anything that could potentially be hiding deadly spiders in their boughs. He had seen Ant-Man and Hawkeye leave twice on their team's personalized jet, going somewhere he didn't know nor cared to follow, since they always returned to the base. When he'd first arrived, he'd caught a glimpse of the former SHIELD director re-entering the building, and the man hadn't left since, so the mutant didn't happen to know where the man had gone and who it had been with; though, remembering what Carmen had told him, Peter could wager he'd gone off to redirect Coin somewhere else. The man would be dimwitted to send the embedded agent back to his prior position, after all.

During the day, he took time between studying the area with his eyes to glancing at anything he could find of the place through quick, cloaked excursions into their systems using his suit's technology and interface. The layout of the building was complex, but not terribly hard for the trained killer to understand (since he'd been trained to deal with worse), and he found that he could never afford to pry too deeply unless he attracted the attention of their AI, who, after doing some digging, he found was named _Female Replacement Intelligent Digital Assistant Youth,_ or FRIDAY as an acronym, which quietly confused the teenager, as he didn't really understand the naming choice.

He slowly wove his own code into the system in small fragments, hiding them in places they would go undetected until too late, then verified the work to make sure it would fit his purposes. Then, with a breath, he pulled up the interface on his prosthetic arm and hovered his other hand momentarily over the big _Initiate Protocol_ button. His subconscious made the decision for him in his hesitancy, pressing the button. The instant it was done, the hidden code attacked the system like a virus, overriding everything the building ran on in a clean sweep, though he knew the AI was strong and self-sustaining and the diversion likely wouldn't last long. The facility went dark, and everyone outside paused their activities. He used their distraction to use the cover of the trees to get to the Compound, adhering himself to the walls and climbing noiselessly into the ventilation systems. Then, double-checking where all of the targets were, slithered his way over to the vent entrance of the common room. The lights flickered, and in an instant, he dropped from the cover of the vent and began his assault. All hell broke loose.

* * *

As the lights became sturdier and the AI began flickering back to life, a daring battle ensued in the common room. The heroes had been caught off-guard, and so most of them didn't have time to summon their formal gear and were desperately using anything they could get their hands on to keep the dreaded assassin at bay. When FRIDAY booted back up and the lights returned to normal, Tony immediately summoned his armor before ducking out of the way of a thrown knife, feeling the blade nick his ear, before shoving Pepper behind the bar of the kitchen. Raising his head to look above the surface, he saw Bucky and Natasha exchanging blows with the trained killer at incredible speeds, giving everyone else enough time to gather their bearings and get their own equipment fully ready. Clint and Scott were crouched by the couches, the archer's bow now in hand as he notched an arrow, while the ex-con quickly shed his civilian clothing to reveal he'd been intelligently wearing his Ant-Man gear. The clang of something sharp hitting the Vibranium shield of Cap's was followed by a metallic whirring as Rhodey went in to deliver a punch that the kid deftly leaped over, before twisting and using the man as a springboard to kick out at an approaching arrow, snapping the metal shaft with a swift kick of the left foot. A blur of red went sailing towards Weaver, but their head snapped away from where it would've hit, and the kid landed, crouched, on the wall before swinging back into the fray with knives in both hands.

When the Iron Man mask closed in over the billionaire's head, he had FRIDAY assess the situation, and it wasn't looking pretty. Most of them, due to their paranoia, had at least half or more of their gear on their person. The problem was that the enclosed space of the common rooms prevented most of the heroes from using everything in their arsenal. Tony could quickly tell that he and Rhodey wouldn't be able to do anything but throw punches in their respective metal suits, since the repulsors and weapons both of them had stood more of a chance hitting an ally than the dangerously quick enemy. Sam and Bruce were hidden closer to the hallways, since Redwing and the Falcon suit were useless in the fray and they didn't want to risk the Hulk coming out unless it was absolutely necessary. Thanks to his aim, Clint was safely able to fire barrages of arrows, but was quickly running out since they all tended to miss their mark and were promptly destroyed. Tony watched in shock as one of the arrows caught the kid in the left shoulder as he was dodging a joint attack from one of Nat's knives and Steve's shield, and winced when the kid didn't even glance at the offending object before removing it with a quick tug and snapping it as he threw it to the side. The acrid scent of blood in the air told of the wound the assassin didn't even react to.

Scott was darting in and out where he could, shrinking and returning to his normal size again, but with all of the people involved in the melee, he wasn't able to try many punches. The genius could only keep track of the ex-con thanks to FRIDAY, and even then it was hard, but Weaver always seemed to sense when the man was coming and dodge at the last second. He vaguely recalled reading that the kid had enhanced senses and could sense when danger was approaching, and that was when an idea formed. He watched as Vision went in to deal a strike before promptly disappearing when the hit-man drew back, and shock as Wanda tried to hold him in her telekinetic grip before the kid managed to struggle free of it after a swipe from Bucky's prosthetic clipped his right arm, the sound of Vibranium on Vibranium loud and causing the spider mutant to hesitate enough that a cut from Natasha managed to slice a piece from the assassin's mask, a slight stream of blood dripping from the barely exposed chin. T'Challa went to kick at the assassin's feet, hooking them and yanking while the killer was distracted avoiding an attack from Rhodey, but as the lithe figure fell, he managed to snag his hands out on the ground and dexterously kicked towards the king and lieutenant.

"That's it!" Tony called, causing some of the heroes who weren't actively engaged in the battle to look his way. After the initial fright from the original ambush wore off, most of them had fallen into a more battle-worn routine, though most of them were gasping for breath and were now littered in fresh injuries. He winced as he heard one of Natasha's knives break against the prosthetic right arm as she blocked a punch and barely moved out of the way for the limb to graze over her head. "Make noise!"

"What- Of course!" Scott began, before almost hitting himself upside the head barely avoiding a nasty kick. "His enhanced senses!"

"Give it a try!" Steve yelled, before ducking out of the way of a stray throwing star that clipped his calf. He picked the weapon up and began banging it against the shield with the flat end, causing a loud ringing to begin vibrating out of the Vibranium instrument. The others quickly picked up the plan, finding whatever was close at hand and using it to try and create as much noise as possible. FRIDAY also used that to amplify the sounds and added her own to the mix.

The kid tried to fight the noise and power through, but it had clearly thrown him for a loop, since his moves were now more jagged and choppy. After a few seconds, the asset seemed to stop completely, dropping the weapons in his hands in favor of trying to cup his ears, crouched on the ground and trying to escape the cacophonous symphony in the tattered room. At that, things looked hopeful for a few minutes, and since FRIDAY was doing most of it, soon the others stopped as well when they, too, had to cover their own ears to save them from going deaf (though, funnily, Clint simply took his hearing aids out and had an arrow notched and ready to fly, and Tony couldn't help but feel a little jealous the man was already deaf and didn't have to deal with the headache). Noting this, the AI began changing the sound, moving higher in frequency until the sound no longer registered to their ears.

Whatever new noise FRIDAY had changed it to had done something awful to the kid. The killer was now a writhing mass of agony on the ground, seemingly fighting with himself as the input overwhelmed him. The posture had been tensed when the noise first began, but now it was downright _feral_ as Weaver began desperately tearing at whatever was nearby, trying to find the source of the torment and stop it. The sight shocked the heroes into freezing as the mutant began tearing at the mask with an intense fervor, presumably in an attempt to rip his own ears off so the sound could just _stop._ Seeing the display, Tony unfroze and sucked in a breath as he realized the kid was reverted to primal instincts by the noise and quickly called, "FRIDAY, turn whatever you're doing _off._ " The man then exchanged a look with everyone else, expecting one of them to try and fight against his proposal since it was incapacitating the assassin, but no objection came.

None of them could hear when the sound stopped, but the kid visibly stopped, body shaking and jittery and curled up in a mangled mess of limbs as blood specked the floor from the injuries the asset had inflicted upon themselves. Then, he slowly began to stand, almost as if to fight them again, only to collapse on the ground unconscious. They approached the fallen form, quickly making sure the kid couldn't hurt himself or them if he woke, before they exchanged shell-shocked looks and the others came out of hiding.

"What was _that?_ " Scott asked, scratching his head as the mask slid off. "One minute he's as affected by the noise as we were and the next we couldn't hear a thing and he was a writhing ball."

Bruce leaned over and began to inspect the kid, looking him over. "He's already beginning to heal, but some of these are pretty deep," he murmured, wincing in sympathy as he eyed the torn shreds of mask that now hung limp around the asset's ears.

Natasha asked FRIDAY for the information on Weaver again, swearing she'd seen something like this happen before in one of those files, and finally opened the Test Procedures. She scrolled through it, speed reading, until she noticed a hidden number beside the methods of torture and followed it to a section of the Subject Logs she hadn't seen before. She frowned curiously, reading it, before understanding sparked in her eyes. "They hid some information deep within the files," she remarked, before adding, "According to these, they found an easy method of torture that, in short bursts, would get the asset to accept commands, and in longer droves, would make him go berserk." She clicked her tongue. "They used a dog whistle on him that was designed to be at 30 kilohertz and lowest and 54 kilohertz at highest. No wonder we couldn't hear it."

Steve frowned, glancing up at FRIDAY. "What sound did you use?"

The AI answered, "A frequency above your hearing range at 32 kilohertz so you would not be incapacitated by the change."

Cursing softly, Tony added, "Blacklist any noises above 20 kilohertz from being able to be played, FRIDAY. If we're going to try and rescue the kid, the last thing we want to do is give someone the chance to remind him of his torture."

"Noted, boss."

Clint had put his hearing aids back in when he saw the others were no longer affected by noise and was now crouched next to the assassin, on the other side of Steve and Bruce, and quietly asked, "Do we remove the mask?"

T'Challa folded his arms. "It would only make sense."

Bruce let out a sigh. "I can't assess the full scope of his injuries and if they're healing properly if we don't strip off the costume, and it would probably be better to get him away from all of his equipment," he mused, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It feels like an invasion of privacy, though." He waited a few beats to make sure the asset was still unconscious, before tentatively removing the mask.

A collective breath could be heard from the group as they took in the face of the fourteen year old kid that had been the cause of the team's newly sported injuries, was responsible for thousands of deaths, and happened to be HYDRA's most precious asset. A sick feeling twisted in Tony's stomach as he took in the bedraggled teen's face. There were permanent bags under the sunken eyes, and the kid's nose was crooked from one too many broken noses. The pale flesh was littered in scars from the various scrapes and fights the assassin had endured, and blood was scattered across Weaver's face from where the fresh wounds had bled and spread the dark liquid inside of the mask.

Looking at the face, lax with unconsciousness, Tony almost could've believed the kid was an innocent high-schooler if not for the remnants of injuries long past painting the resting facade, acting as the only remnants of the child's unfortunate upbringing. He didn't see a killer in the slumped form, suddenly much smaller and holding none of the former intimidation he possessed in consciousness, and he held no indicator of the carefully crafted weapon HYDRA had spent the last ten and a half years molding. The billionaire couldn't help the misery that raced through his heart at the thought that someone so young shouldn't be in such a position. With that misery came a bolt of anger directed at the assholes that had ripped Weaver from a normal life that all humans should've been entitled to. Did the kid even remember a life outside of what HYDRA put him through? Tony didn't know, but if he hadn't, he prayed to whatever gods were listening that the kid could be rescued from the brink and given the chance to live even a fragment of the life the assassin should've had had HYDRA not interfered.

Natasha snapped out of it quicker than the rest, gently nudging Clint and getting the archer to help her lift the limp, bedraggled form, and they quietly moved him to the Med Bay, Bruce following suit. Watching the three move away seemed to break the rest out of their stupor, and Tony swallowed around the knot that had formed in his throat. "A kid..." he said just above a whisper, slowly shaking his head. "We were told he was in the range, but seeing it is nothing like hearing of it."

Wanda was being held by Vision as the girl's knees grew weak, reminded of her and Pietro's time under HYDRA's care. Bucky was no better, barely keeping it together, fists clenched so tightly that his prosthetic was slowly groaning under the pressure and his flesh hand's knuckles were white. Pepper was shaking and Tony reached a jittery hand over to comfort his girlfriend. T'Challa's jaw was tightly clenched as he imagined Shuri, who was around that age, in Peter's position, and Scott was thinking the same, which is why he was quickly following Natasha and Clint out. Without a real conscious decision, the others all trickled out after their captured attacker, all wondering the same thing; was there a chance they could save the kid, or was it too late? They supposed they were going to find out.

* * *

He resurfaced to consciousness slowly, and immediately knew something was off. He'd been in the same room every day for the past ten and a half years, and was so accustomed to the space that he could detect the slightest change in air currents that would determine what time of day it was based on the ventilation systems attached to the room. It always had the same smell, even if there was food, and the light level never changed. As soon as his senses were able to start working again, every difference this new place posed were immediately clear before he even opened his eyes. He felt bandages encasing parts of his flesh and the sting of still-healing wounds underneath them, and the lack of cloth covering his flesh hand and foot, as well as arms and legs told him he was wearing a baggy shirt and sweatpants instead of his uniform. That in itself was enough to make him unnerved, but he carefully kept his breathing even so he could determine what else was different.

Several new scents were filling the area, though the most prominent was one he hadn't smelled in a long time and almost made his stomach churn in nausea at the acrid smell of disinfectant that came from clean hospital rooms. Mixed among it were scents that smelled of the outside world; wood oil, motor oil, chemicals, some herbs, and other scents he had trouble identifying. However, he knew who they belonged to; while fighting them, their different smells had been a little disorienting to his sensitive nose, and now he could identify which smell went to who. Distinctive heartbeats accompanied his captors and the murmur of voices crept into his thoughts. "...vitals are holding good, from what perimeters I was able to glean from the Medical Records." a voice stated, a nervous inflection in the tone.

"That's good to hear." An authoritative voice remarked, relief oozing from the four words.

A person shifted to one side, and from the adjustment, he could garner the person had been perched on a seat arm that sounded like it was made of leather. "...so, what do you think?" a soft, feminine voice asked, dripping with worry.

His senses flared and he felt the same prickling energy from earlier in the fight when Scarlet Witch was using her magic, and the sensation of the foreign substance flowing over him sent his survival instincts flying. The woman began, "He's awa-" before his body jerked active to try and fight off the invading presence. His limbs banged against the restraints that were shackling him to the bed, feeling his prosthetic scrape against the vibranium binds. Raw panic at the sensation he hadn't felt before that day, since he'd never had a magical opponent, burned in his blood as he desperately tried using his prosthetics to contest against the binds. His captors were panicked, now, trying to calm him down, and in his startled state he finally used enough strength to have his left foot and right arm snap free of the binds, since the only thing strong enough to break vibranium was vibranium. Before he could go much further, though, he felt the same magical sensation again and hands on him, and Peter tried fighting against the forces pressing on him. However, this time, the presence of the magic was entering his mind, exuding feelings of calm as best as it could, and though he felt absolutely terrified about the prying (and it brought back some bad memories), he felt his racing heart calm with Scarlet Witch's powers doing their job.

Once he could think straight enough again, he instantly schooled his expression, forcing himself to reveal nothing more of the panic he'd been in moments before and desperately hoping this newfound weakness wouldn't lead to torture. That's what HYDRA had done with his weaknesses; they exploited everything they found. Now that he was calm and his eyes were open, he could recognize and see who everyone in the room was from the file he'd been given, as well as the fight. The voices he had heard had been Bruce Banner (The Hulk, though he was secretly glad the rage monster hadn't made an appearance), then Steve Rogers (Captain America, one of the first people Peter had heard of since HYDRA _really_ hated the man), then someone he recognized from the odd news report he saw on assignments, Pepper Potts (though what she was doing there was beyond him), and lastly, Wanda Maximoff herself. Blinking, his hard brown gaze took everything in, from where all of the people in the room were sitting, to what they had on them, to any available exits and ways to break himself out. It was an automatic response, though even though two of his limbs were now free, he had no subconscious desire to flee. He was supposed to _stay,_ after all; it'd be against the programming to leave before accomplishing the rest of his tasks.

The concerned face of Iron Man adjusted to his side, and his gaze slowly fixed on the man. "Hey," he said, voice soft, with an emotion Peter didn't understand in the word. He had one hand wrapped around Pepper Potts's, with the other grabbing onto the railing beside the bed he was confined in. "It's okay, kid. You're not with HYDRA anymore."

 _Not physically, anyways._ He thought dryly, _And only for the current moment._ He quietly wondered how much they knew of the current predicament, though something else was much more interesting to the assassin right now; namely that none of them had moved to put the restraints back onto his freed limbs, and that, while all of them were in the room, none of them were armed, and only partly on guard. They clearly didn't think he would escape.

As if reading his thoughts, Natasha Romanoff remarked, "Don't get us wrong, kid. We don't want to hurt you, but we will if we have to. So don't try anything funny like acting as a sleeper agent for your handlers to come strike us when we're unaware."

Peter blinked at that, giving no other indication that he was secretly a bit shocked, but also not all that surprised. They had warned him they would know about him, though they hadn't thought the Avengers would be aware of what his ultimate goal here was. It didn't seem they knew about the other Winter Soldiers still being available, but they were alert to the very possibility that he very well could give them away now that he was in their position. Needless to say he was impressed with their tactical knowledge.

Sam quirked a brow as silence fell over the room, then clicked his tongue. "He really _doesn't_ speak."

Rhodey turned to look at the man, raising his own eyebrow. "We read _why_ that is, and it's a pretty good reason. What did you expect?"

So they knew everything they had ever put on permanent file about him that wasn't redacted. No wonder they had been able to use his own enhanced senses against him to take him down. He quietly wondered how much about 'Weaver' they knew, but he wasn't really nervous about them knowing so much. They could learn all they wanted to about Weaver, but he knew for a fact that none of those files contained his true identity. It had at one point, but after they had gotten him, they'd quickly redacted that information. As far as he was aware, unless one of them had prior knowledge to who he used to be, it would take a large leap of logic to connect the assassin known as Weaver to the scrawny four year old that had gone missing ten and a half years ago.

"Interrogations are a no-go." Clint said from where he sat perched on a nearby cabinet, examining everything with interest. "And there's not much we could interrogate out of him that we don't already know. The only thing of interest would be who he _is._ "

Peter would've scoffed if he hadn't been programmed years ago to not make unnecessary noise. He knew for a fact that there would be little anyone could scrounge up on him to match him to Peter Benjamin Parker in regards to his current status. The medical records of him from ten and a half years ago were vastly different from his current status. A fingerprint match would do no good since he'd never had one done before he was taken, and the setules on his fingertips allowed his fingers to have a unique print that wouldn't belong to anyone else. His blood type was different, his parents had been secretive about him, and he hadn't had any major medical tests done on him in hospitals. Once his parents had discovered he was a mutant, they'd been cautious and performed any necessary tests and treatments at home. These guys were strangers to him, even if they were nice, and as long as he was at risk of being used by HYDRA, he wasn't willing to reveal any bit of who he used to be. Peter Parker was dead to them, and it was the only way he'd stayed alive. He couldn't afford to let that one little benefit slide from his fingers. He _couldn't._

Then in walked Nick Fury, and a tense feeling pervaded the room as the man took in the sight, giving a nod to T'Challa (which was out of respect for the Wakandan King, Peter knew), before fixing his gaze on the assassin attached to the hospital bed. When he stayed silent, though, none of them really commented on it. Vision blinked at the boy, before remarking, "Pardon, but I have been running scans on any child deemed missing from ten and a half years ago and cross-matching his face to the missing posters and I believe I may have found a match."

Everyone in the room, excluding Fury, turned to look at the android. Peter felt a cold dread begin growing in his chest as a pervading sense of danger began flaring at the back of his mind at the thought of his true identity being exposed. He knew, logically, that the heroes wouldn't kill him upon learning that information, but it was what HYDRA would do _to_ him if they discovered anyone else had found out who he truly was. If anyone knew, they could do something about it and pose a threat to HYDRA's security. They couldn't have that. His heart began thudding in his chest as he felt like he was slowly suffocating where he lay, waiting to see if the jig was up. What would he do if they knew? What would happen if they did? If they knew, would it be safe to show that they hadn't managed to get rid of who he used to be fully? Was this the opportunity Carmen wanted for him? Was _this_ what the rescue would be? Would it start with knowing who he was?

He was on the verge of internal panic, so he desperately wrangled his jumbled thoughts and kept his gaze cool as he fixed it on Vision, waiting for what the android would say. He opened his mouth. "There is a 83% match for one P-"

"Peter Benjamin Parker. You're a very difficult person to find." Fury finished, his arms folded, not bothering to look at anyone else but the mutant as everyone turned to instead stare at the former SHIELD director. Peter felt his blood run cold and his mind short-circuit at those words leaving the man's mouth. He never thought he'd hear them in person again.

Vision blinked, perplexed. "...Yes," he finished, fixing the man with a cursory glance. "May I ask how you were aware that my databases matched Weaver to Mr. Parker?"

The former SHIELD director was quiet for a moment, before letting out a quiet sigh. "Because he's got his father's jaw and his mother's eyes."

Tony frowned, brows furrowed. "Wait, you knew his parents?"

Natasha was quiet, before a silent realization dawned in her eyes and she exchanged a look with Clint, who seemed to come to the same conclusion she had. "He's the son of Agent Richard Parker and Agent Mary Parker?" she asked, staring at the silent kid in front of her with renewed interest.

Nick raised a brow. "I wasn't aware you knew they had a child, though I shouldn't be surprised you found the information out at some point," he huffed quietly. "They were two of the best agents SHIELD ever had."

The only thing saving him from showing the complete and total shock that was flooring Peter was the years of training he had to hide his emotions, but even then they were strained. He'd visibly paled, and he was breathing a bit heavier than before. His eyes were the tiniest bit wider from surprise, and his fists had clenched around the shirt he was wearing. The mutant couldn't help but feel something he had trouble placing at first, though recognized after a few beats; anger, burning just underneath the surface at the thought that someone had suspected his situation and hadn't done anything on it. If he hadn't been trained not to speak he was sure he would've been yelling, but since his voice hadn't been used in over eight years, he would've been lucky to do anything more than a quiet squeak if he so attempted. His suspicion must've been portrayed in his tense posture, since the others were now looking between him and the former SHIELD director with growing apprehension.

As if sensing what went unsaid, Fury remarked, "If looks could kill, you would have a higher kill count, Mr. Parker," he stated, though a quiet sigh left his lips. "...Though you do deserve an explanation. You _all_ do. But we can do it _outside_ of a cramped hospital room." The man checked the nearby medical clipboard with a nod, before looking at the others. "You're all banged up, so get some rest tonight. Most of you should be fine by morning. We'll talk then." With that, the intimidating man swept out of the room, leaving the room quiet.

Peter's heightened hearing tracked the man as he walked down the hallway and into another room, following the man's path until the director finally went out of range. Only then did he release some of the tension, doing his best to reign in his appearance and put up a neutral face. He could tell it wasn't really fooling them, though, and he really shouldn't be so surprised; they'd read his files from what he could gather, which meant they knew everything his handlers had written about the past ten and a half years of hell he'd been through. He was interested to note that none of them seemed to be afraid of him anymore, though, and appeared to be rather understanding of the situation. At least, he could sense no ill intent from them at the moment, and that was enough to keep him rooted to the spot even if he hadn't been ordered to stay for an ambush. For once, the ever-prevalent sense of danger that always screamed at the back of his mind was quiet, barely a whisper that told him of the super soldiers waiting for his move. It was... almost freeing.

He watched most of the others slowly trickling out, sporting their own injuries dealt by his truly, casting a few cursory glances his way before they melted into the hallway and disappeared. He felt the barest amount of guilt for some of the more severe among the wounds, but he had his own to deal with and had been following orders. He might've felt a tad more remorse if they hadn't (unintentionally, if their looks were any indicators) used the sound in the same vein of frequency as his captors had to torture him. He blinked himself out of his thoughts when he saw the last five in the room stand to excuse themselves, Steve Rogers and James Barnes leaving first, then Natasha Romanoff slipping out, finally followed by Pepper Potts and Tony Stark, both of which cast him an apologetic look, looking torn on whether they wanted to leave or not.

"If you need us, just ask FRIDAY," Pepper said, before adding, "I... don't know everything that's going on, but I do know the Avengers, and one thing that's always stood true is that they've been able to do the impossible." Her hands wrung together, before she finished, "It might seem impossible now for things to ever be okay, but... they've always pulled through. If you give them a chance, I'm sure they could help you through everything. All you have to do is ask. Good night, sweetheart." The SI CEO finished, before giving a polite wave and ducking out.

Tony smiled softly at Pepper's retreating form, before nodding. "She speaks the truth, y'know," he said casually, concern still shadowed in his eyes. "Look, kid, if you think we'll want retribution for you trying to kill us, you won't find any," he sat on the chair nearby after spinning it backwards, then, with a wry chuckle, added, "We've _all_ tried to kill each other at some point or another, and all of us have done things we regret, and most of us have red on our ledger, myself included." He stayed silent for a few minutes, before adding, "So, honestly kid, if you wanted, you'd be able to fit right in. But, trust must be hard to come by for you," clicking his tongue, he finished, "...So if you'd be willing to follow Pepper's advice and give us a chance to help you out, we'd be more than happy to free you from their chains. And even if you won't, that's alright. If we can't rescue you, we sure as hell will avenge you." He stood, moving over to the door, and cast one last look over his shoulder. "Just... think about it, okay? Good night, Jailbird." With that, the man left.

Once he determined he was truly alone, and the lights in the room dimmed, he let himself sink into the pillows and padding of the bed, the softness of it feeling odd against his body after being used to sleeping without a proper bed for so long. His eyes adjusted to the change of light level easily, but his senses stayed on alert, being unable to truly calm down in the new environment. He had hardly ever needed to stay overnight during a mission, and hadn't had to do so in years, since most of his hits were completed within a day. It made him uneasy, especially with the thought of the AI keeping an eye on all of his movements. Peter felt exposed, cornered, and vulnerable. His eyes kept darting around the room, ears attentive to the slightest change in volume, and before he could really think much of it, he reached his prosthetic arm over to free his other arm from the bind, trying to do it as quiet as he could but unfortunately being unable to do it much quieter since snapping such strong metal wasn't really a silent endeavor.

This was just supposed to be a simple hit, but everything had flipped on its head. There had been traitors that were now dead or out of the picture on another mission, the Avengers knew about him as an assassin, and Fury had known him as Peter Parker. His most hidden secret was now exposed to the superheroes for the first time in eight years. Then, his eyes widened slightly in the twilight of the room. _Oh no._ He thought, eyes darting quickly to his right arm. He used his free left hand to quickly pry a panel off of the bottom of the forearm, twisting it around to stare at the wiring. Embedded within the very circuitry he had placed in the device, a small green light blinked at him.

Head reeling, his skin paled and his breathing quickened. _No, no no no..._ his breath hitched as he began clawing at the sensor, not caring what he messed up trying to get the chip out of his arm. Peter vaguely heard the AI call out, and his ears beyond the pounding of his own heartbeat began picking up on the scurrying of many pairs of feet to his location. He didn't care. The asset finally managed to get a shaking finger on the device and, sticking it to it, tugged back ferociously. With sparks that jolted through his body and made his hair stand on end, he turned his panicked brown gaze to the thing he'd torn out and quickly crushed it to pieces in his hand.

 _No, no, no..._ he thought desperately, unconsciously freeing his one last restrained limb and placing his now empty left hand on the now limp right arm, cupping it against his chest. _They know. Oh, god, they_ heard _that..._

* * *

After Tony had left the room, he let out a breath, walking down the hallway where his feet automatically made their way to the common room. It was still a mess from the earlier fight, though it did surprise the philanthropist that the damage wasn't actually that bad. That's where he found the others, and he walked over to Pepper, wrapping his arms around her from behind and kissing her cheek since it was closest. "Thank god you weren't hurt," he murmured with a nod to the remains of the ambush.

She gave a hum of response, before gently moving her hands over to Tony's, twisting to face him and giving him a proper kiss. "Only because you pulled me out of the way," Pepper then turned to fix her gaze on the others, a curious look on her face. "Now, I'm out of the loop. Anyone want to brief me on our impromptu guest?"

So, with comments from everyone who felt like chipping in, the heroes told Pepper of what had happened the past few days, from Faulers' surprise arrival all the way to what they had learned about Weaver. And, like they had, the more she learned, the more her face began twisting with fury at the thought. When they were finished, she was fuming just under the surface. "What monsters would do something so terrible to anyone, let alone a kid?!" Pepper asked incredulously, the CEO shaking her head. "I want to give them a piece of my mind."

At that, Tony let out a snort. "You could if you'd just let me make you a _suit._ " he reminded with amusement.

She rolled her eyes. "I run your company; the last thing I need right now is superhero duties on top of it."

"There's plenty of us who'll make sure they never do it again if we can get anything on them," Steve stated, then frowned. "...and our best source happens to be a kid who's been mute for eight years and a plethora of trust issues."

"And definitely has more thanks to a certain someone," Sam stated, before giving a cursory glance at the silent Fury, who was sipping coffee at a bar stool. "Was that really necessary?"

Looking up from his drink and raising a brow, the director calmly remarked, "It confirmed my suspicions of who he was while also proving a point, so I find it very necessary."

Scott frowned, tipping his head curiously. "What point did you prove?"

Natasha sighed. "That the kid was still there."

Bruce blinked, tugging at the cuffs of his sleeve. "His HRM picked up pace slightly."

Clint nodded. "He tensed more and, while he tried hiding it really well, there was recognition in his eyes."

Fury nodded to them, placing his now empty mug on the counter. "If there was really no hope of rescue, he wouldn't have batted an eye at us discovering who was under the mask." His gaze fixed on the members around the room, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. "His reaction told a story. According to the records, they truly believed they had successfully turned him into a weapon, and he gave them no indication otherwise."

An impressed look entered T'Challa's eyes. "By playing along with their desires, he made them believe he was fully under their control."

"He survived just under the surface," Wanda added from when she had caught a glimpse into his mind earlier. "And held it as a small personal victory that they had failed to get rid of him completely."

"That means he remembers what they did and must hold a grudge," Bucky chipped in, gaze cast at the ground as he rubbed his left arm, thinking of how it was an unfortunate mirror to the kid's right arm. "...so if we could gain his trust, we might be able to help get rid of the remnants of HYDRA, once and for all... even though I feel terrible at the thought of having that kid even _near_ those bastards again."

Vision suddenly looked up. "Pardon, but-"

Suddenly FRIDAY chipped in. "Mr. Parker is in distress. Immediate attention required."

They all exchanged a look before they went running.

* * *

He looked up as the heroes barged into the room, most of them wide-eyed and some trying to catch their breath from the mad sprint over to the other part of the building. Steve straightened and asked, "FRIDAY, what happened?"

They all watched quietly as the footage replayed, and Peter watched his actions with an inaudible wince at how derailed he looked and how poorly he'd hidden his emotions in the abrupt panic that overwhelmed him. When it was done, Tony frowned, going over to scoop up the remains of the device he destroyed, before frowning at it. "What the hell was this, and why was it so important to get out?"

Peter stared numbly at it, still holding the now useless arm to his chest now that it had stopped sparking. He refused to speak, still staring quietly at the spot that it had once occupied. _It's over..._ he thought with quiet despair. _They know._

"Who knows?" A voice chirped, and he startled out of his thoughts as he felt the sensation of magic that had crept up on him return, eyes locking onto Wanda. Did she- could she read _thoughts?_ Why didn't the file state this?

Sam gave her an incredulous look. "Are you breaking past the language barrier by reading his _mind?_ Didn't you want to stop using that ability?"

Natasha gave him a pointed stare. "Shush. Let her work."

"Who knows?" she pressed again, and his gaze fixed on hers, trying to read from her expression if attempting to fight off the mind-reading would be better. At that, she frowned. "Peter, please, just trust me. We just want to help."

There was no lie to her words. So, quietly, he pictured the device again, then, tapped out, _T-R-A-C-K-E-R._

Most of them had been taught tap-speak, and so caught what he'd given, but Wanda furrowed her brow. "What about the tracker?"

 _They know. They know. They_ know. _They_ listen, he thought, before tapping out, _I-T-W-A-S-A-C-T-I-V-E._

Sudden understanding began sparking in Wanda's eyes as an image flashed through Peter's mind, and the magic sharply cut off as she backed away, eyes wide. "Oh no."

"'Oh no', what?" Pepper demanded nervously. "What's wrong?"

Her mouth was suddenly dry, and Wanda finally managed to say, "It was a tracker. _More_ than a tracker. A listening device." She fixed her gaze on the assassin. "It was active."

Tony's eyes widened, and he abruptly stood up. "Then that means- oh _god-_ they know they failed to completely turn him into a weapon. The secret's out."

A small bit of panic began to rise, and Steve raised a hand placatingly. "Everyone, calm down. It's off now, we can work something out."

Something sparked in Peter's mind as a subconscious order whispered into his thoughts, and he suddenly recalled why it had been active when it normally wasn't. _The order,_ he thought, the memories whirring in his brain, _said that I had to remove the tracker and that would be their signal to send in the Winter Soldiers._ He suddenly snapped his head back up, on full alert, a sense of danger beginning to scream into the back of his mind. _They'll be here any second._

 _Good, then you'd be able to still carry on with the mission, right?_ A dark voice at the back of his head queried, feeling a bit triumphant. _Then they'll forgive your error if you succeed._

 _But they've been nothing but honest this entire time,_ a lighter voice reasoned. _They couldn't lie, you would detect it. They genuinely want to help you. This could be your way out. Your escape. They've fought HYDRA before and won, they could do it again. They can finally do it. They can set you free._

 _Can you even trust them?_ The dark voice sneered. _None of them came for you. Their boss suspected all along who you were, and all he did was send in an agent to spy. You were there for years with no hope of rescue, yet one was lingering on the outskirts all the while. How much could've been avoided? How many could you have spared?_

 _They wouldn't have succeeded. They were careful. Too careful. They weren't even formed until six years after you were taken. Fury couldn't have acted on it. They-_ the light voice began, before his senses suddenly blared at him, cutting off his train of thought. _They're coming. They at least deserve to know._

Peter interrupted the conversation the heroes were enduring by pounding his left fist into the metal guard rail of the bed, startling those who hadn't been paying attention into staring at him. He then frantically began tapping, _T-R-A-P. I-T-W-A-S-A-T-R-A-P._

That certainly caught their attention, and those who did understand tapping quickly relayed it. Steve frowned. "Trap? What was a trap?"

His sense of danger began escalating to the point where it was practically overwhelming all conscious thought, and he added, _T-H-E-W-I-N-T-E-R-S-O-L-D-I-E-R-S-A-R-E-_

A loud alert from FRIDAY was all the warning they got before explosions rocked the building and their world was plunged into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter definitely turned out much differently than I thought it would but it's certainly an eventful one. Most of it came from an epiphany I had while thinking of how I would go about things and my remembering that in most versions of Spider-Man canon, Richard and Mary Parker were SHIELD agents, which then made me realize that Nick Fury would also subsequently know of Peter Parker. Needless to say I was quite ecstatic to be able to work that in.
> 
> Next time on OWOW: A decision has to be made; follow orders, trust, or make his own way?


	6. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldiers attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here, hope y'all enjoy it! :D

He didn't flinch when his sense of danger spiked. He didn't move when the building was rocked by explosions. He didn't jolt when the world around him was suddenly plunged into darkness. His eyes quickly adjusted, and he sat upright, spine straight, alert and poised. He could hardly hear the commotion in the room through his own thudding heartbeat. His chest constricted tightly, and it hurt to breathe. They were here. They were here and he had messed up. He'd messed up so badly. He was in deep trouble.

Half of him, the half that knew he had to follow the subconscious orders, started to work immediately. While his captors were distracted, he spotted his utility belt full of supplies then snatched it. He then leapt to the ceiling, clinging to it with no effort as he moved swiftly out of the room in the cover of darkness. The other half, though, raced with questions that had no desirable answers. _What am I doing?_ The answer to that was simple; he was meeting up with the Winter Soldiers, his programming dictated it. _Why am I doing it?_ Another simple answer; because he had no choice, and his limbs kept moving despite his desire to avoid the other assassins at all costs. _Am I in danger?_ His brain almost scoffed. Of course he was in danger, when wasn't he? _Who poses more danger, the Avengers or the Winter Soldiers and, subsequently, his handlers?_ That... he didn't really have an answer to, desirable or not. On the one hand, the Avengers had been nothing but kind to him. On the other, he knew they would want something of him. People always wanted something from him, and he had no idea what they wanted. The other side of that would be the Winter Soldiers, and his handlers. He knew the Winter Soldiers probably didn't know of his precarious situation, or if they did, they didn't care. The orders likely still stood; they were likely to attack with him and return with him. It was his handlers he was worried about. As he scurried along the ceiling, he couldn't help but look at the arm that wasn't actually sticking to the ceiling but was pretending it could, since it wasn't working but was a subconscious effort. They knew he remembered. That was the scary thought.

As he dropped from the ceiling upon hearing another set of bombs going off, and the sound of scurrying feet, he couldn't stop his overactive thoughts from running rampant through his mind, despite the cool exterior. His mind had always been his safe haven, but as he became more aware of how things were, had also become something of a prison. He couldn't be tainted there, but he also couldn't leave. In a way, it was almost relieving that he no longer had to play the charade. Or at least, it would've been, had the charade not been the only thing keeping him from becoming a mindless drone. Now that the pretense was up, if he went back to his handlers, he was sure to be reprogrammed. The thought terrified him. Despite how long it had been since they had last touched up on him, his sharp mind recalled every detail vividly. The needles, the tests, the screaming, the lessons... he was sure he'd never forget. The unfortunate thing about having as great a memory as he had been trained to keep, was that it meant he retained everything. The good and the bad.

His thoughts were cut off by a sudden banging up ahead, and his feet rushed forward despite his unease, a hand automatically drawing out a long dagger. Spinning it to fit cleanly in his palm, he thrust it forward, directing it at the nearest foe's neck. He felt cool metal pressing against his scarred neck, and his cold eyes stared daggers as they met the empty gaze of one of the Winter Soldiers. They stood in a deadlocked silence for a few moments, before pulling away at the same moment. Peter felt himself asking a silent question; _Have the orders changed?_

The look he got in response was answer enough. _No._

* * *

By the time any of them had gotten their bearings again, they were far too late in stopping Peter from leaving. For that matter, they had other things to occupy their thoughts. Namely, the cryptic message, and the sudden explosions. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Steve called out, "Everyone okay?"

This question was met with varying levels of positive agreement, though Natasha squinted her eyes through the dark, doing a mental head count. "The kid's missing."

Tony cursed under his breath, pulling up FRIDAY and having her run a scan of the building. What he saw didn't put him at ease. "Damn, he's right. The Winter Soldiers are back," he muttered, staring at the count and refreshing it numerous times just to be certain. The undeniable proof was there; FRIDAY had scanned them the last time they fought, and had honed in on their heat signatures. What worried him further was that what he could know discern was Peter's signature (FRIDAY had immediately entered in his information in earnest when he had been knocked out) was heading directly towards the soldiers. He watched in quiet apprehension as his dot and one of the Soldiers met up, then broke apart. "The kid's with them. He just joined up with one of them."

"Shit," Clint muttered. "That can't be good."

Wanda seemed to be lost in thought, and a quiet glow emerged in the twilight of the room. Her magic seemed to wander for a bit, brow furrowing and a complex expression adorning her features. "He was frightened earlier," she said, reminiscing on the feelings of terror she'd detected when he'd started tapping to them. She reached out with her magic towards the figure that was starting to become familiar to her abilities, and felt it quietly latch on. Her eyes widened in shock. "Oh."

Vision turned to her after having scanned the building himself, directing efforts to get the power back up with FRIDAY, but he was distracted back to the presence by Wanda suddenly squeezing his hand. He turned to her cautiously. "Wanda?"

Wanda let out a breath. "He's conflicted," she murmured, before fixing her knowing gaze on Bucky. Pursing her lips, she remarked, "He's still under the effects of the programming."

Understanding dawned in Bucky's eyes as his thoughts were distracted from his fear of the other Winter Soldiers. Turning, he remarked, "They're still under his skin. Of course." His eyes met the others. "They're all following the same orders. It would make sense that they're not killing each other. HYDRA doesn't want their assets at each other's throats." Just saying the word had him short of breath, and made him wince when in reference to the kid they'd met earlier. He would like to think he'd be willing to fight off the other Winter Soldiers without a care in the world, but he knew that was wishful thinking. A small part of him, the part that refused to let him forget he'd been in their service, still remembered that particular order to not interrupt the work of other assets and avoid fighting. Despite this reluctance instilled by many, many years under HYDRA's hands, a larger part of him knew he wouldn't let his newfound friends walk back into the line of fire, not if he could help it.

Scott shuffled where he stood, suit ready, thumb over the button in anticipation of leaping into action. "So... what do we do? He's gonna try killing us again if that command's still in his head."

Natasha seemed to be lost in thought, pacing the dark room she'd grown accustomed to and spinning a blade idly in her hands. With a frown, she turned to stare at the group as a thought crossed her mind. Turning to Bucky, she calmly queried, "Say, you were able to break out of the commands before, right? How'd you do it?"

Bucky frowned, then his mouth opened in quiet recollection. "I had to circumvent it. Either something had to come from my past, or... I had to be injured enough to jolt me back to reality. Hitting my head often worked."

With that thought in mind, the room became filled with discussion on their game-plan. When it was settled, a quiet grin had crossed Steve's face, and the Captain was silently proud that they were all working as a team once more, with the new additions to their rankings. When things had quieted down, he cleared his throat, slipping into his hero voice. "Alright, team. You know the plan. Let's make it work."

* * *

The Winter Soldiers had split up, from the occasional glimpses Peter caught of them as they patrolled the snaking hallways. He was on his own now, though he felt eyes on him constantly as a Winter Soldier would tail him for a bit, then disappear, only to be traded by another. He had a sinking feeling he knew why there was a sudden change in their demeanor. Chances were they'd been alerted of the situation. Weaver was a flight risk. There was the off chance that the programming would fail since he had enough sentience in him to avidly hide his free thought, and thanks to that, there was the chance that he wouldn't follow through with the command. If that were to happen, he'd likely run away. They couldn't allow that, Peter knew. He also knew that if he couldn't break away from the restricting programming, he was screwed. Regardless of how everything ended, short of being killed, the programming would have him go back to his handlers. And that would be the end. He couldn't allow that.

But how could he break away from the order? It was so ingrained to follow it, especially if it came from the whistle, that it subconsciously controlled his movements as if he were a puppet on a string. He hadn't ever had a reason or a motivation priorly to try and break it, but now, it was all he desperately and feverishly wished for. He didn't trust the Avengers; hell, he would honestly be surprised if he could ever trust again. But even they seemed to be far more appealing than going back to his handlers. Before, he would've been more torn. But now that they knew, Peter couldn't go back. That's why it frustrated him that, despite his knowledge, despite his intelligence, despite everything he had experienced as an assassin, he hadn't an inkling of a clue what would work enough to get the programming out of his head.

He was so lost in thought his body suddenly jerking to the side caught him off guard, and he stumbled a bit on his feet as he dodged the sudden attack. He felt his prosthetic arm swing out to strike back, and flinched at the sudden clanging of vibranium hitting vibranium. His eyes widened the tiniest fraction as his gaze met with Bucky's. He felt his other arm duck into the utility belt around his waist and fish out a sharp object as his other arm turned downward to direct the other man's arm down. He tried to twitch the armed arm out of the way, and his hesitance must've been readable on his face, since the former asset immediately backed off, still on the defensive. The sounds of battle waging around them came to his ears as he realized the other heroes were clashing with the Winter Soldiers.

"Peter!" Bucky called, snapping Peter out of his observation of his surroundings. Once his gaze fixed on the man, he added, "The programming is breakable!"

His body faltered at that as it had begun the next attack, causing him to come to a screeching halt where he caught himself from falling back redirecting his momentum, swinging his fist into the wall. It cracked under the pressure, splintering out from his hand where it had embedded into the thick reinforced materials. Once his momentum had stopped, he stared blankly at Bucky, trying to process the words even as his body tried jerking free. The programming was indeed breakable? He wasn't sure if he'd believe such a declaration from anyone else. But Mr. Barnes was the original Winter Soldier. He'd been under their hands, too. He would know better than anyone if it were possible to snap the code.

Seeing his pause, Bucky let out a breath. "For me, it was coming across old memories, or a strong enough blunt force trauma to force the body to forget the order. I don't think the former would help us here, but-"

Bucky was cut off from another abrupt swing from Peter, and the former leapt away as the latter instead spun to find the knife in his hand trying to fly from his hands and embed itself into T'Challa's shoulder. He redirected it last-minute to flip and narrowly graze the man's stubbled jaw as it found a home in the wall as well. He then felt his body leap to the wall and cling as he slid a bit, having significantly less traction with his prosthetic arm being relatively useless (he knew he shouldn't be using it, but his body still reacted with it instinctively, and he worried what kind of damage would befall the exposed internal wiring that was far more sensitive than the sturdy metal that protected it. He could hear it sparking slightly from the overuse his subconscious put on it, but he couldn't stop his body from still thinking the arm working. He watched as his absence was quickly filled by the other assets coming in to fight, and paused a moment to watch the conflict ensue.

Peter watched in quiet unease as the heroes fought the assassins. A part of his mind quietly whispered it was a battle between good and evil. Another part berated the other part of his mind for such a thought. There was no such thing as definitive good or definitive evil, just actions that could be deemed morally right or wrong by any party. But the part of him that had been desperately wishing for rescue for years insisted the Avengers were the heroes in this situation, and the Winter Soldiers the villains. The other part of him that had grown cynical queried where he fit into the equation. That was an answer he couldn't provide. He wanted to do good but was forced to be a killer. Did that make him evil? He didn't want to think so.

He felt his body bunch and prepare to leap back into the fray, when he was reminded of Bucky's words. Alright, so he needed a good dose of healthy bodily harm to break free of the programming. No biggie. Or at least, it wouldn't be, if not for the fact he'd become numb to physical harm that wasn't to his senses a long time ago. That... was definitely a problem. One that definitely needed to be rectified. As he jumped off the wall, his mind was racing, trying to come up with any way he could possibly hurt himself enough to break free. And then his eyes tracked Captain America's shield, and an idea formed in his head. Luckily, his body seemed to be of the same thought as he and his good arm lifted to catch the shield as it flew towards him, skidding on the ground slightly from the force of the device. Then, while the momentum from catching it was still going, and before his body could betray him, he thrust his arm upwards as hard as he could while simultaneously jerking his head downwards. The resulting clash was loud, and he felt the rattle down to the tips of his toes. His mind blanked for a second, before it was once more tempted to attack, and so, he quickly repeated the motion, and slumped against the wall as the shield dropped from his hands.

Warm liquid began to drip from his forehead, and he reached a hand up to cup it in mild shock. He blinked the stars out of his eyes, shaking his head to clear the fog and trying to get his gaze to focus and stop spotting at the edges. But when he felt something brush past him and pick up the shield, his only reaction was to jerk away. Upon spotting Captain America, he raised his good arm in defense, but felt nothing else. No desire to fight back, no need to kill. The sudden lack of bloodlust amazed the mutant, and he found himself staring with quiet amazement as he no longer felt the restricting presence of the command in his head. The moment didn't last, though, as he felt a fist drive itself in the space his head had been just a moment before. The hitman was thankful his instincts still hadn't failed him. The Winter Soldier seemed to scowl at him in disgust, and Peter got the impression that he'd just signed his death sentence.

He needed to get out. He needed out _right now._ With a breath, he raised his good arm out to snag the asset's arm and, using his superior strength, threw the man away from him. Then, he quickly scrambled to his feet, head reeling at the sudden motion and his vision swimming. However, he could already feel his vision straightening, and the cut on his forehead was starting to heal. That meant he wouldn't be dazed for long. He wasn't sure if the order would come back (he desperately wished it wouldn't), but what he _did_ know was that he needed out. This was the opportunity to make a choice of his own. He could choose to go back with the other assassins. He could choose to stay with the heroes. That was what both sides wanted for him. But he'd never had a choice. And now that he did, he was carving his own path.

With that determination, he immediately began his assault, scrambling desperately to get out of the building. As he whizzed his way through the dark corridors, anything that moved to stop him was an obstacle to avoid. If it didn't attack him, he didn't attack it. But if it went to stop him with force, he was attacking back. Friend, foe, Avenger, Winter Soldier, it all blurred in his vision as he made his desperate escape. He could hear the calls, the pleas to stop, and could feel the silent anger of the fuming assets he once was a part of. He knew this meant war. He knew doing this would put his life at absolute jeopardy. He knew by fleeing he became the prey, the object of affection that two parties would be searching for. But he didn't care. This was the first choice he could recall making of his own volition for as long as he could remember, and it wasn't the smartest choice. It wasn't the most informed choice. Hell, was it even the best decision to throw himself into the line of fire?

He didn't know, and right now, didn't care. As he burst free of the dark building, into the open air, the breeze rushed past his exposed skin for the first time in ten and a half years. His eyes squinted in the sudden change of light, but it was no longer tinted by eye lenses. He could see uninhibited. His limbs no longer brushing against the familiar fabric of his uniform, the utility belt around his waist the only part of Weaver's outfit he had on him. His prosthetic arm hung limply to the side, and his bare feet caught on the pebbles, but he was free. Finally, finally out in the real world without an invisible chain around his neck. He had to admit, freedom tasted great.

A crashing sound from the building behind him jolted him back to reality. Right, he was running away. Of his own volition. Making his own choice. He couldn't help the giddy grin that flashed across his face, before it dropped back to the serious, neutral expression. As he ran away from the building, his head felt lighter, and his chest felt clearer. His conscience, for once, felt... alright. Not clear by any means. But, for once... it felt... like something in his life was right. Even if it was only for the moment. But that was alright. He might as well take the moment while the moment was good. He'd made his choice. Now he was going to live with it... although how long he'd live with it, he wasn't sure.

Only time would tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being so quiet, I was taking a mental health break. I'm back from it now, though!
> 
> So I had a thought. I love writing, and I want to keep writing, but writing the same stories can get a bit dull and burn me out if I keep on it for too long, which is why I switch between which story I'm updating before updating the former one. With that in mind, I was thinking on taking on a few other projects in the interim to keep my muse and motivation up! So, what things would you guys like to see from me? What fandoms, topics, and stories would you guys want me to tackle? I won't tackle everything, since I probably will only pick something up if it appeals to me, but I'd like to see what you guys think! I'm a part of many, many different fandoms. (To list a few, Minecraft, Pokemon, Sanders Sides, Slime Rancher, My Hero Academia/Boku no Hero Academia, Steven Universe (the movie comes out today and I'm so excited), Jurassic World, Slime Rancher, quite a handful of different YouTubers, and more.) While picking up more stories might space out updates on my current projects, it would keep me from being burned out and give you guys more content to read. I think it could be beneficial, but I want to know what you guys think.
> 
> Next time on OWOW: The hunt for Peter Parker begins.
> 
> Discord: https://discord.gg/7jYYC36


	7. Riptide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two conflicts; one physical, one mental. One definitely proves to be more irksome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another update, friends. :D
> 
> Just a warning that there's a considerable amount of violence within the first segment of this chapter that is pretty well-described. If you wish to avoid it, you'll be past it at the paragraph beginning with, "Unluckily for Peter," or the 8th paragraph in.

Despite the swift pace of the fleeing form, their movements were silent, not even a huff of breath escaping past chapped lips as the figure flitted through the twisting pathways. They paused in the shadows of overhanging awnings, melting into the encompassing darkness with ease. Senses attentive and alert, body pressed flat to the cold bricks, the being calmed their racing heartbeat down to a quiet drumbeat as they took soft, even breaths in. The whispering of footsteps raced overhead and around, as three small squadrons of three a piece came to a stop nearby. Peter cursed his luck, before directing his senses to scout the area. There were the three approaching him down the alley, and six on the roofs, three on each side. It seemed he hadn't quite lost them, much to his chagrin.

Pursing his lips, he fished out his dwindling supply of weapons in his utility belt, fingers grasping easily around the last of his knives, the two blades blending easily into the nook between his middle and pointer finger, and middle and ring fingers. Could he make do with these? Perusing the leftover supplies in there- three shurikens, a single dagger, and two canisters of web-fluid that produced webs sharp enough to slice objects. He'd have to make the knives work until he could loot supplies. Lifting his gaze, he turned to re-secure his limp prosthetic arm from where it was strapped to his side, making sure it wouldn't get in the way of the fight. Then, he faced the oncoming enemy with a smirk playing on his lips.

Raising his left arm, he cupped the second knife into a secured position flat against his palm, and flicked his wrist to throw the first one. It spun in an arc before embedding in the man's unprotected side, right above a clasp that secured the thick protective vest. The man startled, and that was the only prompt he needed. He rushed forward, hearing the pop of gunshots and turned his dormant prosthetic towards where he felt the darts would hit. He felt one brush across the skin of his right leg, but kept his face neutral. He had a job to do, after all.

Peter knew he was vastly outnumbered, one to nine, but it made no difference to him. He'd rather die fighting HYDRA than ever go back to _their_ knowing clutches. The darts flew and he dodged as best he could, though with an arm out of commission his maneuverability was vastly lessened. Unfortunately, all of the groups he'd taken down in the past week he'd been running hadn't had quite enough tech left to scavenge in order to repair the arm to a minimum functionality, and he'd had to tie it with spare cloth he'd found to his side to keep it out of the way. That also meant he was down an arm and some of his torso's flexibility, and while he was durable, he... definitely wasn't invincible.

He kicked off the ground and leapt at the man he'd targeted, landing on his shoulders and sticking. He tipped the man's helmet off and stabbed the knife into the nape of his neck, snaking his legs around the man's midsection and wrapping his hand around the soldier's on the dart gun. Wincing at the new darts prickling in his leg, he aimed the arm up and shot the few darts left in the gun at the men on the roofs, though ran out after the fourth. Clicking his tongue, he used the other knife he'd kept pressed in his palm to shank it into the nearest man's shoulder, before transferring over to him and once more using the darts available. Huffing that one man on the roof was still standing, he turned his attentions to the other soldier on the ground and pushed off from the second man he'd moved to and flipped through the air before delivering a sharp, definitive kick with his prosthetic foot to the man's head, snapping it to the side. He felt another dart find its home in between his shoulder blades, before hearing the clicking of an empty chamber of the gun.

Standing, he turned to stare at the last man on the roof, before grabbing the last gun from the final man on the ground and shot the rest of the darts his way, until he went down. Once his sense of danger quieted down again, he let out a breath, exhaustion clinging to his limbs. He pulled out the seven darts that embedded themselves in his skin, swaying slightly as he did so. He recognized the tranquilizing agent in the darts as one his handlers found stayed in his system the longest; twelve minutes and seventeen seconds for a single dose. Great, he'd have to deal with this for an hour and twenty-six minutes, give or take. That was rather unfortunate. Shaking his head to clear some of the clinging cobwebs in his head, he sharpened his hearing to see if any of the men were alive, and frowned when he noted that two on the roof hadn't been overdosed from the darts.

That simply wouldn't do. Walking over to the men who he'd left his knives in, he braced himself and clambered up the wall to where the two men lay, thankful they were on the same rooftop. With quick efficiency, he slit their throats, watching for a moment as they bled onto the ground and their breaths hitched in their chests. He thought there was something wrong with their hearts stopping being a comforting sound. When he confirmed the attackers would move no more, he stripped them of their gear, putting them in piles depending on what they were. Armor, weapons, and technology that was usable went in one, and anything he couldn't use went in the other. Unfortunately, the same pattern stood for the other hunts he'd thwarted; more went into an unusable pile than a usable one. Most of the armor tended to be discarded, since it either was too large for his thin frame or it would make moving nearly impossible, and agility was currently his best asset. He grabbed spare cloth if he could in case he needed it to stop bleeding or act as a breathing filter, though otherwise left the clothes untouched. He was already decked in a covering, thicker turtleneck and full-length pants that he'd taken from an empty store, with sneakers being the only thing otherwise clashing against the dark outfit. He would've gone for thicker, but since he needed his feet to be able to stick through whatever material he wore, these were the best he could work with.

Unluckily for Peter, most of their weaponry were used ammo clips that had formerly been loaded with darts they'd used trying to shoot at him earlier, and the guns they had used to fire them in. While he could use a gun well, it did him no good if there was no usable ammo, so he pushed those to the side as well. Beyond that, they were too bulky to keep on him while he was running. He found two spare knives and daggers on three of the men and pocketed them quickly. Then he rifled through their communicators and whatever spare tech they had on their person. With a grin of triumph, he ripped the final parts he would need to get his arm semi-operational again from a phone and a handful of their radios, then tore apart the rest so they were no longer usable. Standing, he jolted on his feet to the side and let out a breath, pocketing the materials before jogging off, hoping that would be enough to keep him from Morpheus's embrace.

The former asset didn't get very far before he heard familiar voices he definitely hadn't expected to hear nearby, and let out a silent curse as he once more ducked back into the safety of the shadows. He should've expected one of the Avengers' newly formed recon teams would arrive; they'd been tracking his movements too, after all. Grumbling under his breath, he crept into the nearest building, hopefully out of sight and out of range from any scanners. The one unfortunate thing about this was, while he had removed the only tracker on his person, vibranium gave off a uniquely trackable signature that made it rather hard to hide. He'd need to work quickly if he wanted to avoid the heroes. So, crouching, he opened the utility belt and pulled out what circuitry he needed to reconnect the neural cords that calibrated to the chip embedded in his brain that allowed fluid movement between his fake limbs. He didn't have a welding gun on hand, so he had to opt to taking a spare cloth and ripping it into tiny pieces before tying it around the wires to secure them in place. He prayed they wouldn't catch fire.

As he worked his other senses roamed, and he felt the prickle of danger every now and then when his hearing discerned one of the searching heroes nearby. The sense of danger was much lesser with them, though, in comparison to the men HYDRA sent his way. He supposed it was because they didn't actually want to _hurt_ him while HYDRA was anything but. A small part of him felt slight guilt for fleeing the hero's protection a week ago; they'd shown their cards pretty well when they hadn't bothered to strap him back in despite him being a flight risk. That... showed a lot of trust on their part, and the mutant wasn't quite sure he deserved it. After all, they'd seen the bodies; they knew he was still killing. Still, they searched for him earnestly, giving him a few scares a number of times after a particularly nasty hunt. It was all he could do to redirect the weapons in hand away from hurting the heroes before he'd fled the scene, losing three good shurikens in the process. He... wasn't sure _why_ he was going out of his way to avoid bringing harm to the heroes at his own hands. He hadn't really been against harming one of them if they'd gotten in the way while he was fleeing, after all. But now...

...He supposed he was getting sentimental, and Peter didn't know how to feel about that. He'd think about the sudden and uninhibited free reign of his emotions and how that was probably not a good thing later. Securing the last wiring into place, he sealed the panel in place once more, feeling a sharp shock from the prosthetic. With a curious glance, he carefully thought of moving the fingers, and they registered, albeit slowly, and not in the order he'd wanted. Besides that, though, it would have to do. He checked its other motor functions; moving the wrist, the elbow, and then the shoulder joints, noting they moved much like the fingers did. It was better than it not moving at all, though, as it would be able to at least _hold_ things now. That was a marked improvement!

He jolted as he heard shuffling nearby, and berated himself silently from getting absorbed in the semantics of having a semi-functioning right arm again. Jumping to his feet, he quickly clambered onto the wall, using the innate sticking ability to press his body flat against the ceiling, quickly controlling his breathing as he slowly began crawling, back to the floor, towards the nearest exit; a window with no glass that been smashed through by a stray dart. His heartbeat began thumping more erratically in his chest as the movements drew near, and he had to pause to collect himself and keep his quiet breathing even. Then the footsteps stopped, and all he could hear was his heartbeat, his lungs contracting in his chest... and the matching organs in four other people. Knowing he was caught, he let out a knowing groan, before slumping off of the ceiling, letting his setules release from their prior grip. Landing on his feet delicately, he straightened, before turning to face his company.

Chocolate eyes fixed on (in his opinion) the rather intimidating forms of Captain America, Iron Man, Ant-Man, and Black Widow, and he felt a nervous chuckle worm its way out of his chest. Oh boy, not a good situation in the slightest. While he was technically physically superior to all of them, he still had tranquilizers in his system for another 28 minutes, a semi-functional prosthetic arm, and some lingering pain from the last scrape. His healing was slower due to lack of food, and he hadn't been getting much water, either, which was rather unfortunate since you think both would be easier to procure from goddamn New York City of all places. He had a dwindling weapons cache and no desire to really hurt the only people in the last ten and a half years that had not only been half-decent but also had given him their trust, which he'd spat back in their faces. So chances were they were pissed that he'd basically back-stabbed them, and that was... definitely not something the former asset was looking forward to. Captain America would be able to beat him much easier in a physical confrontation, especially with that shield of his, Iron Man had a much more handy array of ranged weapons at his disposal, Black Widow was going to be far more agile while he was under the influence, and he couldn't do much against an opponent that could change size at will. Perhaps that was their end-game, then. Sending out four of their best in case they needed to neutralize him. To make matters worse, Iron Man in particular had been nice and understanding, and Captain America had gratefully (and unknowingly) lended his shield to break him out of HYDRA's control. Despite the general disassociation from most opponents he'd had to face, he couldn't bring himself to think harm on the Avengers before him. He really _was_ getting soft. HYDRA would have a _ball_ with this attachment if he fell into their clutches.

...Which was precisely why he couldn't stay. At least if he were caught alone, it would be of his own volition, and he'd be the only one in danger. While the temptation of the safety the Avengers and their personal assets was quite tantalizing, it also meant that he would be a sitting duck in their base, as well known as it was and as well known as their members were. Peter was very well aware of how many innocent civilians the Compound contained, along with the Stark Industries tower. It would be selfish of him to rope anyone unnecessary into his problems, even if it meant his own safety. He'd had a lot of time the past week to think about his morality and who he wanted to be, and dammit, now that he had the choice, he needed to reconsider everything he'd learned of the world from HYDRA's skewed point of view. Which, of course, entailed figuring _himself_ out, which was hard to do when getting hunted like a dog.

"Hey, kid," Tony Stark remarked coolly, voice altered by the suit. "Gotta say, you'd be an international champion at Hide and Seek."

Peter blinked at that, rolling his eyes and tapping a message against his arm. I-F-O-N-L-Y. I-T-S-N-O-T-F-U-N-T-O-P-L-A-Y-T-H-E-G-A-M-E-W-H-E-N-Y-O-U-H-A-V-E-A-C-H-E-A-T-S-H-E-E-T.

A small smirk played onto the corner of Natasha's lips. "Vibranium's easy to track. Why waste valuable information?"

Eyes narrowing, he added, W-E-L-C-O-M-E-T-O-T-H-E-P-A-R-T-Y-T-H-E-N, Y-O-U-R-E-A-L-I-T-T-L-E-L-A-T-E-T-O-M-E-E-T-T-H-E-O-T-H-E-R-G-U-E-S-T-S.

Steve pursed his lips at that. "You don't have to kill, you know. Aren't you free from their commands?"

Peter quirked a brow at that. O-H-Y-E-S, S-U-R-E, L-E-A-V-E-T-H-E-G-U-Y-S-H-U-N-T-I-N-G-M-E-A-L-O-N-E-S-O-T-H-E-Y-C-A-N-H-U-N-T-M-E-A-G-A-I-N.

Scott frowned. "You don't have to do it by yourself, though."

Steve nodded. "We're willing to grant you protection, Peter."

"It's not like any of us are much better in terms of past records, after all," Natasha remarked wryly.

"Please, kid, we just want to help." Tony finished, lifting the face mask to give the kid an earnest stare. "You don't have to go this alone."

Peter would've laughed at how funny they were being. He slowly began backing towards the window, and internally sighed when he saw Natasha noticed and began matching him step for step. I-G-E-T-Y-O-U-R-E-T-R-Y-I-N-G, R-E-A-L-L-Y. He felt his back press against the wall, a few feet from the window. If he made a good dash for it with what speed he had, he could make it out and start going again. B-U-T-I-D-O-N-T-T-R-U-S-T-Y-O-U-G-U-Y-S-E-N-O-U-G-H-Y-E-T. With that final tap, he used the moment to take a running leap out of the window. He flew into the air, before mentally activating the web-shooters on his left arm, the only one he'd had stocked since his right arm had been down. The web hit the building, and he used that to slow his momentum, hitting the ground at a roll and starting his rapid escape.

It wasn't so easy, of course. His speed was still fighting against the lingering effects of the darts for another 24 minutes, and he hadn't been getting proper nutrition. His body was running on fumes whether or not he wanted to admit it, but if Peter Parker were one thing, it was stubborn. He heard the whirring of the Iron Man suit's repulsors, the sound of shrinking, and two pairs of footsteps as he dashed away from the confines of the building he was confronted in, and his mind whirred as the mutant thought a million and one thoughts on how to get rid of his unwelcome entourage.

He could throw weapons at them, since that tended to work quite well with HYDRA. Unfortunately, he didn't think it would do him any favors with the heroes. Iron Man and Captain America would be unaffected, Ant-Man could dodge by shrinking, and Black Widow wouldn't have any troubles dodging since her level of training was on par with his own. Scratch that idea. What if he strung them up with webs? That normally would've been an enticing thought, but he was low on cartridges. The one in his left web-shooter only had 16% of it left, and he'd taken the one in his right arm's web-shooter out the first day he'd been running. The two cartridges in his utility belt needed to be used sparingly, since webs were basically a must-have for anything a blade couldn't slice, and made getting away much easier. If he couldn't think of anything else, that would have to be his option. Peter tabled it for later. Would he be able to cause a distraction to get them off of his tail? The only way he could really see them getting distracted by anything else was if he put civilians in danger or HYDRA miraculously showed up out of the blue. The former was one that wasn't the most appealing, only for the fact it would be too much work and, quite frankly, would take too long to set up. Not to mention it would probably make whatever small part of Peter's moral goodness feel guilt at endangering innocents, and since he was trying to be more companionative to that side of him, he didn't want to risk it. The latter was a double-edged blade; the heroes would get distracted enough to beat HYDRA for him, but he'd also get caught in the turmoil if he weren't careful and could get even more drugged up than he already was.

He slung a web at the nearest rooftop and began leaping between them, making it more difficult for all but Iron Man to keep a steady follow on him while also giving him a slight bit more maneuverability. It made him feel slightly better to be up here rather than on the busy streets below. He glanced over his shoulder once to check how close they were, and was surprised to see that, while Tony Stark had drawn incredibly close, he was neither speaking to him nor using anything to make him stop. That had Peter contemplating hard on the current situation. He'd told them (well, _tapped_ to them since he didn't trust anyone or anything enough with HYDRA on his back to actually _speak)_ that he didn't trust them enough to consider going with them. Were they actually heeding his words? Were they trying to win his trust by letting _him_ be the one to take the initiative? He knew what they had in their arsenals from the file (had he really been tasked with assassinating them just over two weeks ago?), he knew what they could do to detain their targets first-hand. The fact they were letting him set the boundaries was... new. Something formed in his chest at the thought, something Peter didn't recognize though could've sworn he once knew long ago. They were giving him the _choice._.. and respecting the one he'd made when he'd fled their open arms a week ago.

Peter was so distracted he didn't hear the sound of warning from both the pursuing hero and his senses before he slammed face-first into a brick wall, crumbling the framework and falling down the concealed stairs it had hidden from the outside world. Internally wincing, though otherwise showing no personal harm beyond a slight bit of hesitance, he stood up and brushed the dust off of his body. His senses jolted and he looked up to see Iron Man hovering over the new hole in the wall, staring down at him. "You okay, kid?"

Was he okay? Peter didn't know the meaning of the word. Quite literally, since it wasn't a priority word in the dictionary his handlers had given him since it wasn't a term they ever wanted him using when he reported missions. What did it mean to be okay, and did what he just did _look_ okay? He'd heard his handlers and other HYDRA lackeys using the term, of course, but he could never ask them to elaborate. So, with a tilt of his head, the fall distracting him from his former objective of running _away,_ he tapped, W-H-A-T-D-O-E-S-T-H-A-T-M-E-A-N?

The silence that followed that was almost palpable, and if Tony had had his faceplate up, Peter would've seen the deadpanned expression on the older man's face at the question. "You don't know what being _okay_ is?"

The former asset blinked at that, then shook his head firmly. I-D-O-N-O-T-K-N-O-W-W-H-A-T-T-H-A-T-W-O-R-D-M-E-A-N-S. I-V-E-O-N-L-Y-H-E-A-R-D-I-T-I-N-P-A-S-S-I-N-G.

Tony went quiet at that, thinking of the implications such a simple message provided. How much did the kid not know about the world? _Not enough,_ his mind helpfully supplied, when thinking of the actions the kid had taken in the past week. It was all they had done to keep the cops out of the picture (with Nick's help, of course) in lieu of the storm the kid was brewing across New York City, and he didn't even seem aware of the trouble it caused others to find dead bodies left in various odd places (he didn't want to think about how the kid had managed to get one of the bodies wedged in a sewer grate) with varying degrees of supplies and clothes. It was all self-defense, he knew; HYDRA was moving with the same information they had, and more often than not got to Peter before they could because they had a much larger quantity of men on their side. Thinking on the situation, Tony found himself thinking about the beach, and one of the things he'd learned about the ocean, and couldn't help but compare the situation to a riptide. Unpredictable, dangerous, hard to get out of, and able to pull whoever was caught in the middle of it right back in and strand them.

The billionaire went to answer the assassin's question, but found himself staring at empty space. The kid was gone, had likely slipped out when he'd been lost in thought. Dammit. With a sigh, he said into the comms, "Lost visual on him... again."

The exasperated sigh of Steve sounded over their general broadcast. "Slippery little guy. If Shuri hadn't given us a way to track vibranium, we'd be in deep water."

"What are you guys gonna do now?" The almost nonchalant voice of Clint asked over the radio, and Tony could hear the hidden undertone in the archer's voice through the hesitancy of the question.

Natasha clicked her tongue. "Switch rotations; we don't want to exhaust ourselves. Give him room, too. We need to show him he can trust us."

"Easier said than done," Sam remarked, letting out a huff. "It better be worth the effort."

"With the skills the kid has? Definitely," Bucky chimed in, though added, "Besides, it would look good on your resume," he assumed the Winter Soldier had given the Falcon a nudge, as the latter grunted.

"I'm glad you all can joke around in light of recent events," the calm voice of T'Challa remarked, "But we are running out of time. The more time he is out there, the likelier he will fall into bad hands."

"No kidding," Scott remarked. "The kid looked dead on his feet. He can't go much longer at this rate."

"Then we show him we mean no harm," Wanda resolved.

Vision added, "Perhaps demonstrate our aim by taking initiative on the HYDRA locations that the repaired tracker provided?"

"That would be a good way to show him we're not enemies," mused Bruce thoughtfully. "Would it work, though?"

Tony shrugged as he left the building, in search of his teammates to regroup. "Only one way to find out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter one, but I'm quite happy with this chapter. An even blend of action and even a minor tone of fluff from a rather socially ignorant Peter who just doesn't know what some words mean.
> 
> Next time on OWOW: Three sides are caught in a war; two working to stop the third, two working to get the third, one working to avoid both sides, one with good intentions, one undecided, and one with bad intentions. The Hunt continues.
> 
> Discord: https://discord.gg/7jYYC36


	8. Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Peter is kind of tired of the hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost to the climax of the first arc! Woohoo!

Peter was tired. Tired of running, tired of thinking, tired of feeling, tired of playing this game of cat and mouse. He was tired of the hunt, of being the one hunted. It itched at his skin, the unfamiliar feeling of being the target, when he was so used to being on the other side of the loaded gun, the one holding the sharp blade. It was now going on two weeks since he had left the Compound, and Peter could count down to the second how much longer his body could keep working under the current conditions. Since both his former handlers and the heroes could track him by the vibranium prosthetics he very well couldn't get rid of lest he wished to immobilize himself, he couldn't stay in one place for very long. He'd only caught fits and bursts of sleep, and hadn't been able to procure enough food or water to satisfy his metabolism. The numbers dwindled in his mind as he kept track of when he'd last eaten, when he'd last had a drink, when he'd last slept, and how much he'd gotten of all of them.

He drew in a ragged breath as he stood straight in the pouring rain, letting the cold liquid wash the crimson from his flesh and wash away the puddle of metallic copper from the three limp corpses in front of him. He tilted his head towards the sky, eyes closed and arms slack, taking the momentary reprieve to collect himself. Lethargy clung to his lithe form like a weighted blanket, numbing his overworked limbs and dulling his senses. After a few minutes, he huffed out a breath and opened his eyes once more, not bothering to check the dead HYDRA lackeys for supplies as he stalked off into the night to find shelter from the storm. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering and resisted the urge to rub his flesh arm for warmth since the metal that made up his right arm was chilled to the touch from the spring shower.

He found an awning that he clambered under, tucking with practiced ease into the corner and huddling in a tight ball to use his body heat as effectively as the mutant could. His night vision offered some semblance of relief from whatever lurked in the darkness, but the exhaustion that had been suffocating him strangled his conscious thoughts once more. Peter found himself nodding off and kept snapping his head back up in an effort to fight the intoxicating lull of sleep. It was a losing battle, for as the minutes dragged on, his head was drooping more frequently and rising less. Eventually his head propped against his knees and his eyes closed, and the only sense that stayed a vigil was his hearing.

The murmuring of voices clicked into his head as he clawed back to consciousness an hour and a half later. The rain still poured, muting the drenched city's usually exuberant noises. His instincts finally kicked in and he swiftly traversed the wall to a more safely hidden location. A quick cursory check showed the former asset that there was only one entrance normal people could use, but multiple exits for a certain wall-crawler. As he tucked into the veiled area, he reigned in his breathing and heartbeat to steady and slow them to an almost indistinguishable decibel level. Now more alert, he focused in on his hearing and paid heed to the conversation.

"Bloody tracker! Get a read on 'im!" He heard the smacking of flesh on metal, then a frustrated huff. "This bloody weather is messin' with the read."

"I told the boss we shouldn't be using sonar spectrometers," another man muttered. "Does us no good if there ain't no light or heat on the stupid metal to track."

Peter stilled at that, mind whirling. So they'd been capable of finding him because of how much light and heat the vibranium absorbed and refracted by bouncing sound off of the unique metal? With it raining and the prosthetic icy cold, and the rain acting as sound-wave interference, there would be no emitted signal. The mutant had to wonder if the Avengers were using similar technology, before shaking his head at such a thought. The King of Wakanda was intimately familiar with the metal, and Tony Stark was not called a genius for show. Chances were they had a device that more closely targeted the atomical make-up and composition of the vibranium and could follow it on a larger scale without having to worry about interference. He... didn't know what to think of that thought.

The first man let out a withering sigh. "It's cold as hell out here. Do we need to keep searchin'? As far as our scans can indicate, he might not even be in this part of the city."

"Don't say that around the asset!" the second man hissed urgently. "These Winter Soldiers are extremely loyal and if it hears your disobedience you're as good as dead!"

The first man immediately fell quiet, and the mutant could hear his racing heartbeat. "Fine, fine," he said, before his voice fell into a more reluctant whisper, "But this is bloody stupid. Did ya hear how many of us he's taken out in two weeks? We're thinnin' like sheep at a slaughter! And those bloody Avengers ain't helpin', either, with their stupid technology and their assaults on our bases."

The second man let out a mirthless laugh at that. "The big boss isn't worried about them, he just wants his precious pet Spider back, and it's made Ace crack down harder than before. 'Ignore the heroes, get Weaver'. Like we ain't even trying!"

The mutate held his breath as the threesome walked beneath him, and he finally got a good look at them. The first man was stockier and heavier-set, with a thick accent and a scruffy five-o'clock shadow. The second man was shorter but smaller, his dark skin making him harder to spot. Then Peter's eyes landed on their group's last member and he felt an uncomfortable shiver race down his spine as he spotted the Winter Soldier there. He was silent, longer hair masking his eyes that the mutant knew were roaming, looking for him. He noted quietly that the man had a newly installed prosthetic forearm, and his mind unpleasantly chose that moment to pinpoint the man's face to two weeks prior, when he'd been fleeing the Compound. He had mangled the arm the Soldier had thrust in his direction in his rush to escape and hadn't given it a second thought. Admittedly, while a part of him felt the tiniest sliver of guilt for causing the removal of the man's forearm, more of his thoughts were dedicated to wondering what enhancements the new attachment brought with it.

The group eventually passed by, and Peter felt an immense amount of thankfulness for the bitterly cold pouring rain that had masked his presence, even if only momentarily. As he slipped out of the hiding spot and got moving through the city once again, he mulled the conversation over in his brain before analyzing it. It seemed that groups were now being sent out with the Winter Soldiers in a last-minute and more desperate attempt to get him back. That thought didn't sit well with Peter, especially if the _big_ boss, the epitomal head of HYDRA for all extents and purposes, wanted him back. He'd only heard of the mystery man in conversations between his handlers; he was the man that Ace directly worked under, and the only man that the otherwise impenetrable man seemed fearful of. During his programming, he knew that part of the imprinting had been dedicated to this man on top, but for the life of him he could not recall ever having seen the man. Things were stilled fogged and blurred in his mind from the training portion of his time with HYDRA, and the mutant knew there were certain things he would likely never consciously remember from those three dreadful early years.

Moving carefully between alleys, he then moved on to the next piece of new information; the Avengers were attacking HYDRA bases now. He supposed that was an adequate reason why he hadn't really seen them all week, since the last time he'd faceplanted into a brick wall and Iron Man had watched. His eyes narrowed as he ducked down into the subways and began a lonesome crawl of the underground tunnels. Were they doing this in an attempt to win over his trust? He found himself not wanting to entertain any other thought of why they would be engaging HYDRA at their own bases. He furrowed his brow as he made his way through the dimly lit maze. Did they know where all of the HYDRA bases _were?_ If Faulers was still alive, then Peter would wager that the embedded agent had spilled the secret locations readily. The thought made Peter's chest warm with something he hadn't felt in a long while; the tiniest inkling of hope, something that the young spider had thought was all but snuffed out by the torment he willingly repressed to the back of his mind.

He emerged on the outskirts of downtown Manhattan, before once more repeating a methodical serpentine walk of snaking between the buildings and alleys. The rain coursed down the scarred skin and the mutate paused as his eyes caught sight of a large sign that displayed the superheros in all their glory. His fingers twitched and he found himself subconsciously holding the prosthetic arm as he stared at the heroes that had waltz into his life and brought the careful Hell that HYDRA had crafted crumbling to the ground in just over two weeks. They glowed vibrantly in the dark New York skyline, immortalized by the flashing neon against the twilight, acting as a beacon in the darkness for the souls who wandered the muted streets at such a late hour.

He frowned, chewing on his lower lip thoughtfully as he was interrupted from his harried movements. Did he trust them? No, not really. _Could_ he trust them? Peter should've been more alarmed when his mind supplied an immediate yes to the suggestion, but instead, a mixed knot of emotions hung in his chest at the notion. Fear at how swiftly he found that old him clinging to their outstretched hand, hope that there was finally, _finally_ an escape from HYDRA's clinging threads, uncertainty on what they would do with him if he were freed from his prison's grasp, and... a quiet, dark voice that whispered mutely at the back of his mind that he was undeserving of rescue, that he was a weapon, an asset, a monster, too broken and destroyed and remolded to ever bring back to any semblance of normalcy.

The former asset dismissed those thoughts and emotions he had no idea how to handle and brushed them back into the deep, dark depths of his mind with the rest of his issues. Tipping his head, he let his eyes once more focus on the bright image of the heroes hanging in the air, contemplative, an idea stirring into fruition. While he would rather keep going it alone, he knew he was running out of time, and he was exhausted of being constantly on the defense. He was out of supplies and low on energy, but he would rather die than fall back into HYDRA's clutches. Besides, attacking HYDRA directly sounded like the kind of morale boost he needed. With a new resolve and plan, he let his body automatically take him in the direction of the nearest HYDRA-controlled establishment he knew. His eyes were narrowed and cold as his body instinctively adapted the ingrained killer instincts the predator had instilled in him. He refused to be the prey any longer. Weaver was going on the hunt once more, even if it killed him, even if it destroyed the last shreds of his humanity.

Peter would do whatever it took to _win,_ whether that victory came in HYDRA burning to the ground or whether it was etched in his own blood. One thing was for sure, though; only one of them would come out of it relatively unscathed, and that was the Avengers. Whatever happened, when the dust settled, HYDRA would be gone. It was only a matter of time to find out if Peter was going down with them.

* * *

The HYDRA headquarters was a stir of activity as defenses were prepared for the likely assault of the superheroes. It was only a matter of time before they ended up at this final base, whether by the traitor's or the spider's merits. Regardless of which source the location of the large building would come from, preparations needed to be made to accommodate the unwelcome guests. Tanks and weapons were being stationed every which way, soldiers were perusing the grounds, and four of the six Winter Soldiers were supervising the lackeys down below.

Up above, four figures watched over the commodious space with a relaxed attentiveness. The men down below looked like ants in comparison to the larger tanks and weapon caches that littered the large concrete floor, small in comparison to the hulking devices of destruction that surrounded them. Three of the men were stood by the reinforced glass overlooking the operations, while the last was sitting comfortably in a padded chair, dredged in shadows from the half-lit room. One of the men let out an irritable breath. "This won't be 'nough to do shit to their fancy shmancy gear," Scrappy declared, gesturing to their assembly of firearms. "'Specially if they rope what's left a those SHIELD shitheads into our affairs."

Hornet had been idly sharpening a knife against a pocket sharpening stone, the sound of the blade scraping against the grit providing ambiance to the hushed and tense aura of the room. "Would this not just be a distraction for us to flee with?" he asked flippantly, lifting the knife to inspect how honed the edge was. Seemingly dissatisfied with the current state of the knife, he brought it back down and continued whittling it. "As long as one of us gets away, it shouldn't be hard to continue HYDRA. It's what we've done for years. We always come back as long as one head stands."

Ace hadn't turned his gaze from the operations below. The tall, well-dressed man looked a bit more rumpled than usual, as the head-handler had been pushing hard for the incompetent buffoons below to get back their most prized asset. It was an oversight on their part, he knew; if they couldn't get him back, as his head-handler and the one that was in charge of how the asset was programmed, he knew it would be his head on a platter. When he'd heard that Weaver still retained consciousness from who he formerly used to be, Ace knew immediately that it needed to be amended, and had wondered ever since how well of an actor his asset was to have hidden such an important detail for eight and a half years of complete and total compliance. Such a mistake was deadly, that they hadn't noticed whatsoever that the beast known as Weaver was not fully tamed. Even if they managed to secure the asset once more, Ace knew he would be lucky to not be killed for such an idiotic error. Returning his attention to the conversation at hand, he remarked dismissively, "It won't matter what they do to us. As long as we can keep making assets to carry out our desires, HYDRA stands strong."

"Ah, but that does us little good if our assets _defect,_ Mitchell," the hidden figure murmured. Instantly, all three handlers turned to their boss, a chill running down their spines. Ace felt his breath leave his body at the mention of his real name. The figure folded his hands together. "Mitchell, Harrison, Curt, you failed me," all three of the handlers flinched in turn to their names being mentioned so casually. "Tell me, how is HYDRA supposed to return to its former glory days," he raised a hand. "If a kid we _brainwashed_ and _trained_ from scratch, that we took and raised from the perfect impressionable age of _four,_ was able to break away enough from our programming to actively run away and take down our men for two weeks strong, now?"

Scrappy nervously scratched at his skin. "B-boss, how was we s'posed ta know the kid could fool us?"

The hidden figure narrowed his eyes. "Curt, when we were working with him, you let me know the interesting discovery that the subject contained a near-perfect eidetic memory, did you not? Why would it be hard to presume extra work would need to be input to flush all remnants of former memories from his supple young mind?"

"I-"

"And you, Harrison," the man turned his attention to Hornet, who had dropped both the knife and the sharpening stone, both of which lay on the ground. "You were the one handling his programming. It's curious that for all of your prowess with the body and brain that your tools and instruments could miss such a note. Did you not tell me that you had to switch input methods when the subject grew too accustomed to losing body parts, and that ones that played to his senses had to be used to finish the training?" He placed his chin on his folded hands. "With all of your experience and available tools, it seems rather silly that you could have overlooked the act, no?"

Sputtering quietly, Hornet went to defend himself. "Sir, I-"

"Lastly, Mitchell," he said, eyes coldly fixed on his right-hand man. "You were the one in charge of procuring the asset. You scouted him out, deemed him worthy of our time and resources. I helped get rid of the pesky parents, but that wasn't good enough, so I had to get rid of the uncle and aunt, too. I provided you the vibranium to replace whatever body parts needed to be removed, I kept your actions hidden, I provided a space to keep the asset and hid it right beneath the heroes and government's noses. I've been running interference so you and your team could get the asset up and running," his eyes narrowed. "You knew my temper's been less _merciful_ since the Accords I strove so hard to put out flopped. I asked you to get the asset you assured me was _perfect_ to get rid of my biggest opponents. Despite his nearly spotless record, despite his notorious kill-count, I don't see the Avengers _dead_ and now I have to stop my operations once more because of their unwelcome interference. I'm disappointed, Mitchell."

Ace swallowed thickly. "I... I'm sorry Weaver wasn't fully optimized. I take full responsibility."

Their boss stood. "The kid is one hell of an actor to have fooled all of your experience and profession," the man admitted, before letting out a sigh. "Unfortunately, the curtains aren't falling on _him..._ but rather on _you._ " With that, he cocked the gun he had on the table and fired the bullets at the former handlers. Their bodies hit the ground. He kept unloading the biting bullets into their flesh until he ran out, frustrated that he couldn't take his anger out on them any longer. "Useless, all of them," smoothing his hair, he pressed a button on his desk. "Send one of the Winter Soldiers up here to dispose of the bodies and clean up my office, would you?"

 _"Yes, Ross, sir,"_ the man on the other line, one of his most trusted allies that had survived the SHIELD purge, affirmed.

Leaning back from the button, Thaddeus Ross leaned back in his chair, letting out a breath as he turned on the television. His eyes narrowed in cold anger as it focused in on a news channel covering the topic of the Avengers and how wonderful the newly amended Accords were. He threw the handgun at the device, breaking the screen and pausing the device immediately on a fractured image of the dreaded superheroes. A cold laugh bubbled out of the man's chest. "You heroes think you're _so_ clever..." he muttered, fists clenched. "But unlike my useless helpers, _I_ had more insight to install precautionary measures," a dark grin blossomed on his face then, eyes glinting in the darkness. "Come with your friends, come with the asset for all I care. Walk right into my spider web. We'll see who gets the last laugh when I play my last cards." His gaze drifted to a small red button that he had on his desk, before he picked it up and attached it to his phone. "Your desire to end HYDRA and _save_ my precious toy is admirable, but how high can you stand when your sure footing crumbles beneath you?" With a laugh, he pocketed the phone, mindful of the button, then got up and stalked out of the blood-scented office. "Let's find out, shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be earnest, I'm not sure how the specifics of a sonar-scanning spectrometer would work considering what a sonar and a spectrometer do, but I don't honestly think HYDRA would have advanced-enough technology to trace vibranium through everything, and this seemed like the most logical way for them to be doing so. Besides, it's a world of superheroes; considering that Vulture and his men were able to combine alien technology with ours to create powerful weapons, this seems like virtually nothing compared to that.
> 
> How did you like the ending? I've been itching to get this reveal done and it's finally come time since this first arc is ending in seven chapters! Now before you go harping at me in the comments saying that Ross wasn't HYDRA in the MCU, I know and am aware of that fact, but he's always come off to me as someone who could be HYDRA if he wanted to. He's incredibly shady and has shown distaste towards enhanced and the way the government was generally dismissive of their destructive actions. Beyond that, I've also seen plenty of other fanfictions sharing my sentiment that he comes off as HYDRA, and decided to do it here in nod to it (but also because, to me, for this idea to work, HYDRA staying alive would need support from yet another uncaptured government official, and Ross seemed like the best candidate). I'm sorry if you actually like Ross and didn't want him being HYDRA, though.
> 
> Next time on OWOW: As Peter and the Avengers unknowingly tag-team, it becomes apparent to both teams that their cooperation might yield better results than not. But what neither team could prepare for is the enemy wanting the two parties to arrive together.
> 
> Discord: https://discord.gg/7jYYC36


	9. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter learns the meaning of the word 'faith'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go friends!

_2012 was an interesting year for Weaver. The 9 year old, nearly 10, had been out on the streets scouting for the next hit. Thanks to being small, he could blend into the busy New York crowds easily, though his young appearance often caused many to look in alarm at a young child wandering the streets alone. The kind souls that asked after his well-being were met with quiet indifference, while the poor souls that thought his youth was something to their advantage found themselves sorely mistaken. The deaths were swift, unmerciful, a message to whoever would find the child traffickers or the molesters._

_Peter would internally wince as the life bled from their limp corpses, though his face was indifferent. He never knew when they were watching, and had kept his thoughts firmly locked in the vault his intelligent mind offered for 3 years and 3 months. His hands were too stained at this point for the child to really wonder if his morality was in-tact or not, and a darker part of his mind raved that people who wanted to take advantage of helpless young kids deserved to die. He quickly stamped out that voice and tucked his hands in the coat pockets leisurely. Despite it being March, the Spider found himself cold often, and despite_ hating _his room, it at least offered protection from the elements._

_He did a mental count of what he had on him, and wondered with a twinge of amusement how surprised a police officer would be to discover the deadly devices the young asset carried on his person. His costume was firm against his skin, pressed into his thin frame by a covering exterior layer. While scouting in public spaces, civilian clothing were a necessity that couldn't be ignored, despite their firm insistence he hide his face. Instead he wore fake glasses, his hair tousled to help shelter his haunted gaze, a realistic mask secured firmly to his features to the outside world._

_Weaver was distracted from his thoughts by a commotion, and he lifted his gaze to spot the crowds running around him. The stench of fear permeated the air, and if he hadn't been trained to be used to such a thing, he would've been overwhelmed by how oppressing it could be when so many New Yorkers were panicked. As it was, his senses flared in warning to the quickly changing situation, and his sharp gaze widened as a large creature came into view. It was massive, gliding past the city's tall buildings and swimming seamlessly through the air. It was nightmarish, large form covered in sharp armor, wide mouth filled with sharp teeth. The beast let out a loud roar, and more swarmed from the sky like deadly zeppelins. Whizzing past them at a much faster pace were smaller, more humanoid aliens, attached to floating motorcycle-like vehicles. Their guns flashed, shooting blue beams at random, causing spectacular explosions whenever it struck an incendiary._

_Peter was no stranger to fear. Ever since that fateful November day almost five and a half years ago, he found himself in a perpetual state of anxiety, the shadows morphing and taking on forms of his deepest nightmares and gruesomest realities. The quiet moments were feasts for the demons that lurked in his head, his sharp memory acting as an unintentional tormentor as his brain unhelpfully recalled the things he'd so desperately tried shoving in the back of his mind to rot. The Early Years were the worst, and phantom pain zinged through his missing limbs at the conditioning he could remember came up. But with everything his repressed, overactive imagination could come up with, nothing had ever looked like_ this. _He found himself rooted to the spot as he watched the alien invasion with ongoing horror. When an explosion rocked near him, he took an instinctive step backwards._

_An alien had found eyes for him and began shooting towards him. Instinct made the trained assassin capable of dodging the blows, and he crouched against the side of a building almost ferally, the mask burning against his face and his hands itching to retaliate with weapons of his own. The protocols flashed through his mind, as well as the order to remove whatever stood in the way of completing his objective. Dropping from the building, he landed delicately on the ground, his prosthetic foot making a metallic thump as his thinner shoes failed to muffle the noise. He made to reach towards the flannel shirt and unbutton it to reach for the hidden utility belt._

_The sound of a gun charging, then the following sound of a whirring repulsor and an inhuman shriek caused Weaver to startle, his body jerking ever so slightly. He turned to spy a flying metallic suit moving away from the location, an arm raised and shooting down the original alien, leaving the one that had snuck up on the assassin to fall to the ground, dead. Blood pooled from the wound, an acrid smell that the mutant didn't recognize and had him scrunching his nose beneath the mask. His hands hesitantly dropped as his gaze followed the path the red and gold machine had left through the sky. What was going on?_

_Ignoring that for now, he felt a quiet sound chirp from the arm, then a voice whispered to the corresponding chip implanted at the base of his ears, "Weaver, New York is under alien assault. You are to take cover until it blows over and assess the target's status when it is safe to proceed. If the target is still alive the orders are the same. If they're already taken care of, return to base." As suddenly as the voice had come, it fizzled out._

_For once, his handlers were being sensible. He ran through the streets of New York, using his senses to try and guide him to a safe location. As he went, the sounds of tragedy and disaster reached his ears, and Peter found himself desperately wanting to block them out. They sounded far too familiar to some of his Failures from the Early Years and he_ could not _afford to feel empathy. Hearing a loud fight up ahead, his brow furrowed and he quietly slunk against the wall, crouched low to the building's side. He crept forward until he could spot the source of the noise, though it made him confused more than anything. An odd group was assembled in an open space, staring at the threat like they were nothing, composed of a hulking green creature, a red-headed woman, a man with a bow, a man dressed in American colors wielding a star-spangled shield, a blonde in armor wielding a hammer, and the red and gold technology from earlier that, now that he were closer, appeared to be armor. As quickly as they had convened they broke apart, taking on the aliens with surprising cooperation. His eyes silently widened underneath the mask as he took in the scene, awed at what he was seeing._

_He later learned they were a group of superheroes going by the moniker of The Avengers from the news as the city repaired itself from the damage. It droned on about the alien invasion and the nuclear missile that had nearly struck the city, and part of Peter felt a slight twinge of despite that he hadn't been fortunate enough to perish in the onslaught. Realizing how dark a thought that was, the child mentally shook his head, dismissing the suicidal notion with an equally dark thought that HYDRA would probably just have found a way to revive him, like they'd resuscitated him three times priorly. When had his mind grown so cynical? He paused in front of a screen as it showed the heroes shortly after the battle in the Tower, addressing the public. The news reporters were cheery, happy that Earth's Mightiest Defenders were around to protect them._

_Weaver's eyes narrowed, a bitter, tar-like thing rearing its head. Where were heroes when he had needed them most, before he had been broken and painted in dark red liquid, before the weight of the sins on his back became suffocating? Jaw clenched, eyes dark, he cast his head away from the vibrant image of the world's heroes and stalked off into the shadows, knowing that they were too caught in the limelight to ever spot and rescue a shadow like him. His hopes for a bright future were left with the last image his mind retained of the heroes as they looked up to catch the world's adoration, ignorant to the looming threat beneath their noises that held Peter's strings in their hands._

* * *

Peter crept silently through the HYDRA base, his stomach flat to the ceiling as he crawled ever-steadily to the control room to take out their defenses. It had been a guessing game to find which bases the Avengers hadn't yet found, and a part of the former asset was pleasantly surprised to see that HYDRA's numbers were dwindling swiftly under their careful and thorough destructive ministrations. The number of bases HYDRA had fell by the day, and the mutant's mental checklist was growing further fulfilled as the hours rolled on. There were only five left now, and that made the assassin feel something he couldn't quite identify. Light is the best way he could think to describe it.

His thoughts were disturbed as an explosion rocked the building, and he instinctively clung tighter to the roof. "It's the Avengers!" a voice declared from up ahead, panicked. It was accompanied by the sight of many HYDRA lackeys running forward to face the fury of the heroes, and Peter mentally sighed. So much for his plans. Crawling over the nearest goon that was firing openly at the heroes, he relaxed his grip on the ceiling before twisting, cat-like, in the air to touch the man's shoulder with his left arm. His right connected to the side of the man's nose, breaking it instantly and causing the man to cry out in pain, dropping the gun. Using the opportunity, he picked it up and went to shoot at the other men, only to discover they were already down.

A small smile twinged at the edges of his lip before being quickly repressed, and he turned to face the Avengers, who had spotted him and frozen in place. Dropping the gun, he rolled his eyes before tapping, G-R-E-E-T-I-N-G-S. L-I-K-E-T-H-E-R-E-C-E-P-T-I-O-N?

Natasha huffed a breath, a small smile of her own blossoming onto her face. "Certainly not the worst I've received."

Tony's mask came up, and he lifted an arm. "Listen, kid, we'll leave if you want-"

Peter cut him off with the shake of his head. I-K-N-E-W-W-E-W-O-U-L-D-R-U-N-I-N-T-O-E-A-C-H-O-T-H-E-R-E-V-E-N-T-U-A-L-L-Y.

"You were expecting us?" Sam asked, a brow raised.

"Aw, how nice!" Scott chirped warmly.

The mutant's eyes narrowed slightly. I-H-E-A-R-D-O-F-W-H-A-T-Y-O-U-G-U-Y-S-W-E-R-E-D-O-I-N-G-A-N-D-D-E-C-I-D-E-D-I-T-W-A-S-A-G-O-O-D-I-D-E-A-T-O-J-O-I-N-I-N.

"I'd hope so, we've been thorough," Wanda remarked casually.

"Wait," Bucky said, a small frown on his face. "Does that mean you're willing to... work with us?"

Peter's head tilted down slightly as he contemplated the question, before remembering the decision he had come to that had spurred the hunt he was currently on. W-E-A-R-E-W-O-R-K-I-N-G-T-O-W-A-R-D-T-H-E-S-A-M-E-G-O-A-L. W-O-R-K-I-N-G-W-I-T-H-Y-O-U-E-N-S-U-R-E-S-H-Y-D-R-A-F-A-L-L-S-F-A-S-T-E-R.

"But you do not trust us." Steve stated, reading what went untapped.

N-O. The reply was simple, the shortest tap he'd given the heroes.

Letting out a sigh, Tony's mask clicked back in place. "That's alright, kid. All we ask is that you have faith in us that we want to do the right thing."

Faith. What was that word? Peter didn't really know, but it sounded like a good thing in context of the sentence. He mulled it over in his head, before he turned and began walking further into the base. L-E-T-S-G-E-T-T-O-W-O-R-K, T-H-E-N. H-Y-D-R-A-W-O-N-T-F-A-L-L-I-F-W-E-S-T-A-Y-S-T-I-L-L.

His tapped declaration was met with a few quiet cheers and somber determination. Watching the camaraderie between the heroes that had been working together for five years, a pang of longing and jealousy raced through his heart at how familiar they were with each other. As he waved the group forward to the attack, a part of him wondered if, after the fired died down and he survived, that sort of lifestyle might become available to him. He shook the thought away. He would have to survive everything with HYDRA first.

_Don't think about it,_ his mind hissed at him. _Believing everything will be alright is something you left back in 2012._

_You left it with them,_ another voice shot back warmly, and his gaze lingered on the heroes once more. _And they've come to give it back. You can hope again._

As they surprised a room loaded with HYDRA lackeys, Peter fighting _with_ them and not against, he couldn't help but wonder if the second voice of reason wasn't as idealistic as he originally thought. Maybe there was something to hope for here, after all.

* * *

The former asset learned what faith meant as he accompanied the group in taking out the three last bases before the main headquarters. When they'd brought the word up again, and he hesitantly tapped out the question that had been burning at the back of his thoughts since they'd first mentioned the word, they had been quick to give him a definition. _Complete trust or confidence in someone or something,_ FRIDAY had helpfully supplied when Tony had asked for him. Peter thought it was a peculiar word. How could someone have complete trust or confidence in anything? But as he worked with the heroes, he found his unvoiced queries were steadily answered.

The heroes worked in complete and total tandem, a streamlined and well-oiled machine that took down HYDRA bases far faster than the spiderling could ever dream of doing alone. Without speaking they seemed to know what to do, where to go, meshing seamlessly with changes in strategy and adapting to the situation flawlessly. They were confident in each other's abilities, trusting in their plan and dedication, having _faith_ that everyone would play their part. It was fascinating to watch, and he caught himself staring more than once, awed and struggling to comprehend how so many different beings could work in tandem so smoothly.

He was further surprised when he realized that they were granting him the same treatment. Peter's trained eyes noticed all of their openings, always towards him but never towards the snakes they were destroying. How they relaxed around him, his presence already natural to their senses. How they were unfazed and even went along with his lethal methods, agreeing without word that the only way to kill HYDRA was to ensure every last one of them was purged. Even without telling them of what he was doing, they followed his thought process with startling ease, playing along without a word on his part. They were confident in his skills, knowing full well that this was an area of expertise for the former asset, and they trusted him implicitly. They had _faith_ in him, too.

As they finished off the last base before the headquarters, an elated feeling had risen to the surface, and as they joked about how easily it had been and complemented each other on their successes, a small laugh escaped Peter's lips. It was rough, hoarse, and cracked, broken and aged from when he'd last spoken and rusty from disuse. The sound surprised everyone, including himself, as Peter's eyes widened and he stared uncomprehendingly at his mouth, a hand moving to his lips and the other hovering uncertainly above his voice box. The situation seemed to freeze as the realization that Peter had _laughed,_ even momentarily, clicked for all of them. Then, the ice thawed instantly as the Avengers' spirits soared, the group becoming even more merry than before, going in for a group hug before Peter swiftly backpedaled from the affection, feeling like he was a step behind everyone else as his mind fixated on the comprehension that he had unintentionally made a sound for the first time in 8 years.

A warm, bubbly feeling surfaced in his chest, and his uncertainty was replaced by a tentative, nervous smile as he met their expectant, hopeful gazes. They were so _so_ bright in his eyes, yet their light was cast on him, bleeding some of the shadows away. He felt _seen_ for the first time, and a weight seemed to fall from his body as he decided to give the faith thing a try. He stuck his right arm out, fist closed, miming the motion he'd seen them do at one of the earlier bases. Then, that tingly feeling grew as they laid their own hands on top of his, miming the motion, until they were all in a circle together, staring at each other. A sparkle seemed to light his dark brown gaze as they broke what Peter would later learn was called a team hand-stack. His veins were buzzing as they left the building to confront the last remains of HYDRA, for once the dark tar that clung to his thoughts being swept to the recesses of his mind.

As he left to cut the last string keeping him dangling in HYDRA's clutches, Peter cataloged the word faith in his mind as something sacred to be shared with those who shone so, so bright, so bright that it overshadowed their flaws. Now, when his mind asked if he trusted the Avengers, the answer was no longer uncertain. The hope that came back with the spotlight being cast into the shadows he had hidden in so long was held close to his chest like a flame, one he was determined to keep from blowing out. He had faith that the Avengers could cut off HYDRA's heads once and for all, and he would stay to prevent their heads from regrowing. When he looked to the future, it stayed uncertain, but he found himself more drawn to the desire to survive despite the odds.

If HYDRA fell and his string was cut, he hoped that he'd live to see another day. With quiet amusement, his mind quietly corrected, _You have faith in the future now._ It was a warm feeling, and it seemed to silently chuckle. He silently laughed along with it, the smallest of smiles twinging onto his lips, and he felt optimistic for the first time in a long while. Among such bright people, he hoped their light would rub off on him, and maybe, just maybe... there was a light at the end of the tunnel for him.

* * *

The anticipation ate at his skin as they approached their final destination; HYDRA's headquarters. The cold wind brushed across his newly suited form as Peter crouched behind a snowbank, waiting for the signal. He was thankful that his new companions had half a mind to provide him with his old outfit, and while he no longer liked the HYDRA insignia it had stitched at the nape of the neck, it was comforting to be sheltered for the first time since he'd been captured at the Compound. Part of Peter found it ironically hilarious that the people he'd tried to kill 2 and a half weeks ago were now the people he was base-busting with, that had broken the gate on his repressed emotions and had slowly begun coaxing them out of their self-imposed prison. He wasn't fond of the cold (he despised it as any self-loving arachnid with terrible thermo-regulation would), but he was willing to crouch with Natasha, Bucky, and Steve in the bitter white snow if it meant they could strike HYDRA where it hurt.

The signal came through Hawkeye's explosive arrow piercing the weak wiring of the door, hitting it with a boom that rumbled through the air. The doors fell open and the heroes and Peter rushed into the building, knowing they would be working with a limited amount of time. What none of them were expecting, however, was the silence. A curious frown covered Peter's face as he made his way to the control room and shut the power off, his sense of unease spiking higher as he met up with the others in the main room, where weapons were left abandoned. His skin pricked and his senses were going haywire. The building should've been more full, should've had more people. There had always been at least fifteen soldiers in a base at a time, and even moreso from what he'd heard of the headquarters the few times he'd been there and above the surface.

Something was _wrong,_ and he couldn't pinpoint what. It wasn't until an icy cold bolt shot down his spine, the lights flickered back on, and a loud booming that sounded like thunder happened that Peter realized the error of their ways. His wide eyes faced Ross as the man stared him down, a malicious and triumphant smile on his face as he faced the heroes, surrounded on all sides by the remains of HYDRA's forces. They had gotten the power back on after they had left it, and the booming was from the doors slamming and locking shut behind them. _It was too easy,_ a voice nagged at the back of Peter's mind. _They were expecting you. It was a trap._

"Well, well, well. Look who walked right into my webs!" Ross declared enthusiastically, before giving a small bow to the Avengers. "Bet you weren't expecting this, were you?"

"R-Ross?" Tony asked incredulously, stunned. "You're... you're HYDRA?" His eyes had landed on the perfectly visible HYDRA insignia on the man's military uniform.

"Amazing, isn't it?" The man asked, a reverent look on his face. "I consider myself very fortunate to have been invited to such a prestigious and worthy cause. I'm thankful every day they invited me to their fold, and look where that got me!" He gestured to the crowd around him with a beaming smile. "The last one standing at HYDRA's helm!"

"You were playing the government this entire time?" Natasha asked, eyes narrowed.

"Oh yes, they were easy to manipulate," Ross said casually. "They're so arrogant and caught up in their own belief that you _heroes-_ " he spat the word as if it had offended him. "- are the solution to all of their problems. They corrupted themselves. They were practically begging for me to step in and wrap them around my little fingers."

Bruce let out an uneven breath, fists beginning to clench. "So you tried to get us to war against each other with the Sokovia Accords, with Bucky, with the Winter Soldiers?"

Bucky's eyes turned dark, his own anger beginning to seep to the surface. "You used me! You tried to pin the bombings on me!"

"Yes, yes," Ross replied dismissively. His own passive facade began to melt away, revealing the underlying burning hatred beneath. "My Sokovia Accords that I sought to establish that were so rudely dismissed by you and your party tricks," he growled, eyes narrowed. "You enhanced are becoming too relied on, too powerful! Soon you could take over the entire world! I needed to knock you down a peg, remind you of where you _came_ from," his teeth gnashed and he grit them in frustration. "I grew sick and tired of you dancing right out of my hands, usurping all of my goals and dreams!" He raised a hand, pointer finger extended, before slowly leveling it with Peter. "...Which is why I needed to knock you down _permanently._ And yet... here we are, my own Spider turned against me." A coy grin played on his face as his head tipped to the side. "Are you having fun with this game, Weaver?"

A game? Was this all a _game_ to Ross? Peter had no mask, so his expression was visible for all to see as it morphed from barely disguised confusion, to anger, to uncertainty. He gripped at his prosthetic arm, gaze trained on nothing but Ross before he tapped out, W-H-A-T-A-R-E-Y-O-U-T-A-L-K-I-N-G-A-B-O-U-T?

The man frowned at that momentarily, before it turned into barely-contained bubbled laughter. "Wow, they failed me more than I initially thought," he murmured, letting out a quiet sigh. "Looks like I have a lot of reprogramming to do after tonight."

Tony stepped in front of Peter, anger bleeding from every word. "You won't lay a _finger_ on him."

"Aw, have you grown attached to my little pet?" Ross asked, before shaking his head. "What makes you think that you can tell me what I can and can't do with Weaver?" He moved to the side so his eyes could meet Peter's once more, and kept walking back and forth whenever Tony would adjust his stance to prevent their eyes from locking. "I'm the one who took him, after all. Finder's Keepers, Mr. Stark."

Peter's blood ran cold at that as a very faint memory, foggy from the years of training, began to play in his mind. _Dark, it was so dark. He was bound, could barely breathe. Suddenly there was light, and he was in a room, a dark room, two men standing nearby, just out of sight. They were talking, talking about him, about what had happened to his parents, his family. The other man grinned, and said, "Don't disappoint me, Ace. I need an attack dog and Peter Parker's the perfect candidate. I hope you won't let me down."_

_"Yes, Ross," Ace's voice had replied. "I won't let you down."_

His eyes widened as he came back to reality, before his body became shaky, too shaky. His fists clenched and his teeth grit, and for the first time since the Early Years he growled, an angry, broken, bitter thing that rumbled out of his chest with the heat of a thousand suns. His burning gaze fixed on the man that was the cause of his torment, downright feral and predatory. With a jittery hand, he tapped out, Y-O-U-D-I-D-T-H-I-S-T-O-M-E.

Ross smiled. "I did." He raised his phone. "I also did this." With that, he pressed the button that was affixed to the back of it.

White-hot fire raced down his nerves, causing Peter to suck in a breath. His vision went wild, and it felt like his entire body had been struck by lightning. He collapsed to the floor in a limp puddle, and Peter begged for the pain to _stop._ Then, it did, but something felt wrong about it. He could see again, but his body was moving on its own, raising from the floor and standing almost robotically. The man typed something on the phone, and suddenly, his legs were moving forward. A quiet horror began to dawn over Peter as he stood beside the man that had ruined his life, and Ross looped an arm around his shoulder merrily.

He couldn't move. _His body wasn't his to control anymore._

With a grin, Ross chimed, "You've always been on my strings, boy. You've forced my hand, now live with the consequences." He gestured to the Avengers, before typing on the phone. "Kill them."

His body rushed forward on its own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO, ASHES, COMING TOMORROW OR SUNDAY


	10. Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world goes up in smoke.

_"Oh, Ross, sir! I wasn't expecting to see you here." Doctor Octavian Bloom remarked, distracted from his tinkering._

_Peter was barely lucid, his sharp senses being the only reason he was even remotely conscious. He was slumped in a chair, strapped around the chest, waist, arm, and legs, shirtless with the left pant-leg rolled up to the knee, as the HYDRA scientist dabbled with the prosthetic designs that Weaver had come up with. They were incredibly intuitive, and the Doctor seemed fascinated that such a young mind carried such a thorough understanding of neural connectivity. The prosthetics in question were sitting at the desk where the Doctor was fiddling with the fine wiring that ran code through them and made them usable._

_"Hello, Doctor," Ross greeted, ignoring the child and hovering over Bloom's shoulder. "Are those the designs the asset created?"  
_

_"They are!" Octavian gushed, grinning. "And their design is intelligent. I'm not quite sure where a five year old learned this. His mind is baffling, Ross. Despite not fully understanding the machinations his eidetic memory allowed him to draft how it would function!"_

_"That's certainly impressive," Ross mused, a small frown on his face. "It's a shame most of that intelligence has to be lost in the training. Perhaps I'll see if Harrison can find a way to use his brilliance for our means. If we only give him a basic form of education but train him on technology and biology he may be able to help design weapons, gear, and equipment for our personal use."_

_"It would be a waste of his genius otherwise, Ross," Bloom murmured, syncing up the last of the wiring. "Ah, there we are. Motor functions are installed and the electrodes are set up. The tracker and a transmitter were attached to the arm, while a transmitter was attached to the foot," he finished closing them up, satisfied, before holding up a small assortment of chips. "Now I will just need to surgically implant these into the asset and he will once more be operational."_

_"What do they do?" Ross asked, staring at the ten chips in the man's hand._

_Grinning a cheshire smile, the man laid them out before picking up the first two. "These are for generalized movement within the prosthetic arm and foot. They're being implanted into the primary motor cortex." He set them down, before grabbing the next two. "Then these will be implanted into the premotor cortex. They're also synced to the arm and foot and will help with the depth-perception, sensory guidance, spatial guidance, and movement preparation." Setting those down, he snagged the next two. "These are the last two that are being attached to his brain directly; they'll help his foot and arm react to movements he wants and helps for planned movement. They will be going into the supplementary motor area." The last four were then scooped into his hand. "This first will be synced up to the communications function within the arm through the transmitter and will allow us to speak to the asset through vibrations that his mind will interpret as sound. It and its companion here-" he gestured to the second, "- will be implanted in the small space of skin underneath the external auditory canal." Bloom carefully set those down, before staring at the last two. "These do not have code on them yet, though my initial intentions were to design them to further process and execute protocols. What do you think?"_

_A small hum left Ross's lips. "Go ahead and do that with the first one. I've got an idea for the second."_

_"Oh?"_

_"Can you keep a secret?"_

_"I doubt I would have survived in HYDRA's ranks and have climbed as high as I did if that weren't the case, Ross."_

_Ross leaned in, a grin on his face. "I'm a very paranoid man, Bloom, and because of that, I don't_ trust _my handlers," he straightened, before adding, "I fear they'll decide they want to stab me in the back one day and take my position. You know what would ease my paranoia, good Doctor?"_

_Guessing where Ross was going with it, a coy smile lit Bloom's face. "You'd like me to install a secret tenth chip to allow you direct access to the asset in case they turn him against you."_

_Grinning, Ross chimed, "Smart man. Can you do it?"_

_Humming in thought, Bloom turned to the computer he had synced up that implanted code into the chips. "It should be possible. All I would have to do is create a series of codes in the chip that would interpret a transmitted signal and emit an electrical stimulant that would in turn trigger the electrodes in his body to following the order," his glasses reflected the bright screen, before he turned to Ross. "Give me a day, and I can get it set up for you."_

_"Thank you," Ross said, though frowned. "How would I give him the commands, though?"_

_"Hmm..." Bloom trailed off, before his eyes fell on a programmable button. Grinning, he voiced, "I can create and install an app on your phone that can interpret and transmit the given commands, and have it be activated upon the press of the button. It's pressurized, so it will only activate when pressed by a finger, and I can have it be attachable to your device so you don't need to have it on your phone."_

_Ross's grin turned sinister as his gaze fell upon Peter, staring mutely at the wall, a fine tremble racking the thin frame. "That will be more than sufficient. Thank you, Doctor Bloom. I'll leave you to your work." With a respectful nod to his cohort, he turned and left the room._

_Bloom let out a huff. "The things I do for the job I love," he commented softly, before staring at the asset as well. "I will have to be most careful when I insert this chip since it would go between the cerebellum and the brain stem." He then let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Then again, maybe not. As long as I can keep him alive any other damage can either work in our favor or be fixed." With that, the man went back to his work, leaving the child to shiver in the seat._

* * *

Peter's fist struck the ground an inch away from where T'Challa's foot had been a second ago, the concrete cracking under the strong metal and the strength the mutant wielded in his small form. Ross let out an unimpressed hum before turning back to the app, typing in a few more things before switching to a double-handed portrait grip from where it had previously been vertical. The way his hands were posed made it seem as if he were piloting Weaver like one would direct a video game character. Responding to the transmitted commands, his body jerked after the heroes in hot pursuit, lashing out at whatever hero happened to be closest.

"Woah!" Rhodey yelped, flying backwards. He turned sharply and avoided a shot from the surrounding HYDRA arsenal.

"What the hell did you do, Ross?!" Clint growled, firing an arrow at the nearest tank and disabling it.

Ross quirked a brow as Peter's possessed body threw itself at Steve, which was met by the vibranium shield that the Captain quickly used to push the asset back. "I'm a paranoid man, Mr. Barton," he stated as he had Peter lash a kick out in Natasha's direction, the other assassin flipping expertly out of the way. "So I installed a little party trick in my assassin. Do you like it?"

"FRIDAY, scan him!" Tony asked, launching weaponry at the surrounding HYDRA agents that were blocking them in and attacking them when they strayed too far out of the middle of the circle.

His visor whirred as several scans of Peter Parker were brought up on the display. "Boss," FRIDAY said, sounding worried despite lacking the designed functionality. "Ten chips were detected in his cranial region."

"What?" Tony asked, before frowning at the information.

"Six are located within the motor cortex of the frontal lobe and seem to connect with the prosthetics. Two are at the base of the external auditory canals of both ears, one is implanted in the temporal lobe, and the last is between the brain stem and cerebellum." FRIDAY relayed, before adding, "Scans indicate the brain tissue has grown around the chips, and they were likely added at a young age. Removing them is not possible without risking permanent injury."

"That wasn't on the files!" Scott chimed, yelping as he barely shrunk in time to dodge the controlled swiping from the spiderling.

"Of course it wasn't," Ross scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I did it in secret, behind the dimwitted handlers' backs. The information was purposefully rescinded to keep the use of the nine known ones lesser known, and the tenth a tool for me to use if I decided Mitchell, Harrison, and Curt were threats."

"You bastard!" Bucky growled, charging the man. Unamused, with a few rapid movements against the phone's screen, Peter's body was pivoting to block the original Winter Soldier from advancing further.

"You know, in a way, I see you leaving our fold as a victory, Mr. Barnes." Ross sneered, eyes narrowed. "Without your flight, I wouldn't be HYDRA's head, nor would we have learned from our mistakes with you and the other Winter Soldiers." He stared at the other six Winter Soldiers with unmasked disgust. "So imperfect in so many ways, taken way too late to condition completely without many repeated ministrations," With a grin, he gestured to Peter. "Weaver, on the other hand, is a _masterpiece._ We got to avoid having to repress decades of knowledge and experience and replaced it with our own training at a much younger age."

"You're disgusting," Natasha spat, pummeling an unfortunate HYDRA soldier that had rushed into their circle to attack them. "He's just a kid!"

"Exactly," Ross said softly, almost reverently. "Children are so susceptible!" With a laugh, he raved, "We got him at a perfect time. Incredible vision, developed balance, motor coordination, use of scissors and other hand-held objects, a developing vocabulary, the ability to retain information that they may not even understand, capable of telling objects apart, and most importantly, lacking moral concepts of right and wrong!" A small frown crossed his face as he continued the attack. "Or at least, that would be the case if he were a _normal_ child, but he's oh so special." A dark grin dressed his face. "His powers were already developing at that age, and he was much more intelligent than a child his age should've been. A result of his mutagenic changes, no doubt. We hit a few _snags_ with his better memory and sharper intellect, but nothing that couldn't have been worked out. Unfortunately, his _handlers_ were too easily fooled by his act and weren't able to make him _perfect._ "

Wanda's eyes narrowed and glowed a dangerous red, reflecting in her hands. With a raise of her hands, she quickly dispatched of the rest of the soldiers that were in the circle, narrowly missing the stragglers at the edges. She was _livid,_ her hair moving in the invisible wind. "You'll pay for this!" She growled, body tensed and rigid in her anger. "You're the worst person on _Earth_ to do that to an innocent _child!_ "

Ross backed up a step out of fear, forgetting to type in another command. In response, Peter's body continued what it was originally doing, which was heading to Tony, who immediately held his wrists to prevent the spiderling from punching the titanium metal alloy. The head of HYDRA's eyes narrowed darkly. "I'm willing to do what I must for my country to ensure the world is _safe._ The sacrifice of one is worth it in the face of the _many_ he will save under HYDRA's regime."

"You call this _saving?!"_ Tony asked, voice seething with anger that Peter could _feel_ through the armor, despite not having control of his body nor seeing the man's expression. "You forced the kid to _kill_ for _years!_ You stripped him of any chance of a normal _childhood!_ You call _that_ saving?!"

"Yes." Ross stated, cold fury of his own dripping from the words like venom. "I do."

"Then there's no choice. Avengers, do whatever you can to end this." Steve said, ice in his eyes and tone.

Tony smirked under the mask. "Way ahead of you, Capsicle," he leaned his head down to stare at Peter, and in a gentler tone, said, "Sorry, kid, this is going to hurt." Quickly moving his hands to cup Peter's head, he called, "FRIDAY, controlled electromagnetic pulse, now! Aim at the ear chips, the protocol chip, and the neurocognitive chip and avoid the others!"

A pulse raced through Peter's body, ringing down the prosthetic arm before zapping into his brain. He let out a cry of pain and collapsed into Tony's arms, eyes clenched shut as the targeted chips turned off. He nearly crumbled to the floor, but the metal armor prevented him from doing so as it acted as a support to the mutant as he once more got his bearings, blinking back into reality, this time of his own volition. Startled, he raised his gaze to stare at the Iron Man mask, before a surprised huff left his lips. He reflexively flexed the prosthetics, testing if they still worked. Then, when they moved, he let out a breath of relief, the sentiment matched in his thankful expression.

"No, no, no!" Ross fumed, angrily mashing at the phone. Turning to the Winter Soldiers that had been held back behind him, he pointed furiously at the heroes. "Get them!"

Obedient as ever, they raced forward, being intercepted by the other heroes as Tony released his grip on Peter's arms. "There you are, kid," he said, lifting the mask, where the former asset could see the palpable relief on the man's face. With a shaky breath, he hugged Peter, head pressed into the assassin's shoulder. "I thought we were going to lose you."

Peter froze in the hug, uncertain of what to do given the current situation. A memory, foggy and blurred of a gesture like this came to mind, and, following what a younger, innocent Peter Parker had once done to the blurred image of his loving family, his arms shakily folded the armored man into a tentative hug of his own. As he completed the hug, a warm feeling bloomed in his chest, and his mouth instinctively twitched into a small, fond smile. Something about this position was precious, and something his body hadn't realized it had missed until this moment.

The hug was broken as a Winter Soldier broke past the others and raced at the pair. Senses flaring, Peter's eyes narrowed instinctively as he thrust his vibranium arm out to catch the knife that was thrown at him. Spinning with the momentum, he redirected it backwards, before meeting Tony's gaze. His fingers twitched, and he reached over to tap out, W-H-A-T-S-T-H-E-P-L-A-N?

With a grunt, Tony threw off an advance from the Winter Soldier, wincing as the man's fist collided with the side of the suit and left a small dent. Averting his gaze to stare at Steve, he called, "Spangles, what have you got for us?"

Steve threw his shield expertly at a Winter Soldier, before sliding against the ground. As the asset caught the shield Steve used his sliding momentum to kick the man's feet out from under him, then threw an uppercut at the man's jaw, sending him reeling. He snaked his leg around the arm holding his shield and twisted it until the shield fell from the writhing assassin's grip. Looking around at the situation, the rest of the Winter Soldiers keeping them occupied and the HYDRA lackeys joining in where they could, he pursed his lips. "We'll wear ourselves thin if we keep this up. Our best course of action is to end the fight quickly. Anything we can use to our advantage, Stark?"

"FRIDAY?" Tony asked, helping Rhodey bend the barrel of a tank until it could fire no longer. "What do you have?"

"The power grid could be overloaded and set ablaze," the AI chimed, bringing up the building's electrical mainframe in a corner of the visor. "To do so, however, there would need to be sparks from a cut wire."

"Gas vapors are present in the air from the destroyed vehicles. It is preferable we were away from the incendiaries before the sparks create a flash fire." Vision chimed from where he had been quietly fighting.

"The nearest cables are reinforced." T'Challa noted, eyeing the ceiling. "And they're up high. Someone with flight capabilities would have to do it."

"I can always shrink and remove the reinforced exteriors from the inside!" Scott offered, panting. He admittedly wasn't as used to fighting for longer durations as the others were.

"That's too much of a risk." Sam dismissed, frowning. "What if you got stuck there when the sparks fly?"

"Come up with something, then," Clint chimed, shooting an arrow at Ross. He clicked his tongue as a Winter Soldier intercepted it with his body. "I'm running out of arrows."

Peter scanned the ceiling, spotting one of the aforementioned cables. It was insulated and covered in metal, running along the pipework at the top of the building. It was the most accessible one nearby he could spot. I-C-A-N-G-E-T-I-T. The mutant offered, flicking his head up to point at the cable he was looking at. I-S-H-O-U-L-D-B-E-A-B-L-E-T-O-G-E-T-I-T-O-F-F-A-N-D-G-I-V-E-U-S-A-S-P-A-R-K. He held a knife he'd kept from another Winter Soldier trying to use it against him.

"That's rather risky, kid," Rhodey chimed, voicing the discomfort the others felt at the notion. "Wouldn't you run the risk of getting electrocuted, cutting a live wire?"

N-O-M-O-R-E-T-H-A-N-T-H-E-R-E-S-T-O-F-Y-O-U. The former asset shot back, kicking a lackey that charged at him away. I-F-I-H-O-L-D-I-T-C-A-R-E-F-U-L-L-Y-I-C-A-N-A-V-O-I-D-T-H-E-W-O-R-S-T-O-F-I-T. I-C-A-N-G-E-T-A-W-A-Y-B-E-F-O-R-E-I-T-L-I-G-H-T-S-U-P.

Natasha pursed her lips. "What do you think, Tony, Steve?"

Steve let out a sigh. "I don't like it, but it looks like it's our best option," blocking another attack, he called, "Tony? It's your call."

"Of course you designate it to me," Tony muttered, before huffing a breath. "If you get zapped, kid, don't say we didn't warn you."

"If you die I'll kill you personally," Natasha chimed in a serious tone, though none could miss the fond smile on her face.

Taking that as permission, Peter offered a small smile at the concern. He shot a web towards the ceiling before leaping into the air, intending to take it all the way to the objective. His aim was thrown off by some of the leftover lackeys shooting the web, causing him to fall short. He tumbled in the air before hitting the wall, sliding against it until he gained purchase. With a breath, he quickly rolled himself over to dodge the spatter of bullets now aimed at him. He made his way up to the cable, tugging it loose and gripping it with the prosthetic arm. He broke the insulation, revealing the live wiring within, then planted his feet more firmly against the ceiling so he could use his other hand to fish a knife out.

"Get him!" Ross roared, fuming. "Don't let them do it!" Then, when he realized that few of them were left standing, narrowed his eyes. "Useless, all of them," he pulled a gun out of his outfit. Leveling it at Peter, he growled, "I'll just do it myself."

"No you don't!" Wanda hissed, using her magic to throw him. However, Ross's finger had been on the trigger, and the sudden motion sent the bullet flying. It struck the cable in Peter's hand as the asset was bringing the knife around to slice the wires. Sparks flew from the cable and Peter hissed as some of the discharge conducted through him, causing the arm to short-circuit and drop the cable altogether. Now aimed downwards, the sparks dripped freely, one of which drifted and hit the gas vapors from the destroyed tanks.

The world was set ablaze as the charge hit the gas vapors, fire flaring to life and licking against the building, snaking down to catch the spilled fuel from the broken vehicles. It quickly caught the leaking line from a broken tank and snaked into the engine, exploding the vehicle. The others were quick to follow suit. Most of the heroes were quick to react, shielding themselves with whatever they readily had available, while most of HYDRA were quickly caught in the maelstrom of flame. Screams from the burning men prevailed as the building began to collapse from the rock of the explosion, cascading rubble down onto the unwilling people below.

The ground rumbled as the rubble fell to the ground, fire licking up between the boulders as it rapidly ate at the fuel. Once it ran out, the flames flickered and subsided, leaving the once proud warehouse as nothing but desolate ruins. Smoke rose between the concrete and dust hung in the air. The stench of blood and burnt flesh perfumed the exposed, cold, snow-driven air outside to the few minutes of agony that had just occurred. A few moments of silence followed the building's collapse, before movement stirred from the ashes of HYDRA's remains, picking their way out of the rubble with hoarse coughs and strained breathing.

Tony moved a large boulder away, then helped Natasha and Clint to their feet from where he'd helped shield them. Opening the comms, he called out, "Is everyone alright?"

Red magic emerged from a spot off to their left as Wanda and Vision burst from the rubble. Wanda slumped against Vision, exhausted and streaked with blood from a cut on her brow. The android himself had a dent in his leg, but despite that was able to float over to the group and help Wanda over. "Present." Vision voiced for both of them, while Wanda gave them a shaky thumbs-up.

Steve climbed out of the ruins towing Sam with him. The latter's wingpack was off as it had gotten damaged from a smaller bit of rubble that Cap's shield hadn't defended against. The former was breathing heavily from the exertion of moving the rocks, but was otherwise alright. "Here," Steve huffed.

"Where's Tic-Tack?" Sam asked, glancing out around.

"Right here," Scott said, resizing beside the man and causing the Falcon to jump. "I hitched a ride when things were going south."

"Warn me next time!" Sam hissed, breathing out a sigh of relief.

"Barnes got his prosthetic arm stuck between some rubble," T'Challa called out as the pair joined them, Bucky one arm short. "We had to detach it."

"It's easier to make a new one than to salvage it," Bucky sighed. "Sorry about that."

"As long as you're alright, that's all that matters." Clint replied.

Doing a mental count, Natasha voiced, "We're missing Rhodes, Bruce, and Peter."

A roar was heard as the Hulk emerged from the rubble, angry at the turn of events. Spotting the team, though, the body shrank until Bruce was left standing. The doctor staggered tiredly over to them. "If it weren't for the big guy, that would've been bad," he huffed out a breath, worry lines clear on his face.

Tony tried the comms again, this time having FRIDAY try to connect to the chips that Peter had as well, hoping they were back online after the EMP. "Platypus, Pete, do you copy? Are you alright?"

"I thought I told you not to call me that," Rhodey's voice quietly huffed over the comms. "Sorry, Tones, the system just came back online. I was hit pretty bad." Concrete chunks moved to their right, and T'Challa and Steve moved over to help War Machine emerge from the remains.

Relief at finding Rhodey was quickly washed away by the silence that came from Peter's front. "Kid? Pete? Peter?" Tony probed, before moving forward a bit. "Spiderling, do you hear me? _Kid!_ "

A bubbling laugh rising from the remains, followed by coughing and rigorous breathing drew the heroes towards a figure that shakily pulled himself from the ruins of the warehouse. Ross's labored breathing was heavy, and the man was covered in blood and ash, but despite that, a maniacal grin was stretched across his features. "Hah... wow... you heroes... really don't know when... to give up, do you?" He wheezed out, leaning against a larger piece of rubble as one of his arms was cupped to apply pressure to a wound that bled rivulets from his side. Eyes narrowed, he chimed, "You think you're... so noble, but... you're no better than me." His words were interrupted by heavy coughing, his lips stained in blood. "The world... sees you as heroes... but you're killers... just like I am. One day... they'll see... what I saw... and discard... you. Just... you... wait." His eyes were drooping, and his breathing had weakened considerably. He raised a hand shakily, flipping the heroes off. "Go ahead... have the kid. But you will... never... be able to... save him from us..." he went to laugh but it caught in his throat, instead creating the sound of bubbles popping through liquid. "As long... as he lives... HYDRA's essence... will follow." He threw his head back and wheezed out the laugh anyways, his face happy despite the circumstances. "Hail... HYDRA..." with that, his gaze stilled, his lungs freezing as his heart ran out of blood to circulate.

The cold winds stirred snow against the scene, the white slowly staining red as it settled over the remains of the building. Ross's final words unsettled the team, not knowing what to think of his last declaration to the heroes. The Avengers turned away from the last remains of HYDRA as they instead focused on finding the one person they really cared about. Peter Parker's name rang out and echoed against the biting snow as the team began searching more desperately for the unfound member of their team, their _family._

A quiet wheezing was heard and the group stirred as a scraggly figure brushed aside the rubble that had pinned him in his fall from the ceiling as the building collapsed over him. He was limping, the prosthetic foot bent at an unnatural angle, the prosthetic arm hanging limp and mangled at his side from where he had used both to break his fall and shelter his body from the worst of the damage. His suit was torn and his body was covered in tremors, blood dripping sluggishly as the wounds repaired themselves. Peter's face looked gaunt and more exhausted than usual, the bags under his eyes standing out against his pale skin and the snow.

The group rushed forward to the mutant as his foot snagged against a rock, and Natasha caught the mutant in her arms. He shivered violently in her arms, but despite this looked up sluggishly at the group, the unspoken question lingering in the air. With a relieved breath, she brushed his messy curls away from his face. "Yes, маленький паук. It's over."

Hearing that, Peter was filled with an overwhelming sense of relief that came out in a broken, cracked laugh, bubbling out of his chest and into the cold Siberian air. Despite how rough it was, hearing it was something that the heroes knew they could never take for granted, and they surged around the spiderling, carefully enveloping him in a group hug, unintentionally also providing the freezing arachnid with much needed warmth.

As they pulled away, Tony ruffled Peter's hair affectionately, the mask pulled back to show the relief on the man's face. The group stared at the remains of HYDRA, finally, _finally_ gone. Then, the group began walking towards the Quinjet. "Come on, kid. Let's go home."

Home. That was a word the former asset hadn't heard in a long time. It was associated with something intangible in his brain, with four deceased loved ones, buried under ten and a half years of trauma. But hearing the term brought up once again, in such a warm way, stirred the happy feelings that were the last residual dregs of those nearly forgotten times. 

"Thank you." Came two broken, cracked words from Peter's lips, barely loud enough for everyone to hear.

The significance of the moment wasn't lost on the group, knowing the mutant hadn't spoken a word for eight years. They boarded the Quinjet and left, the remains of HYDRA to be buried under a grave of snow, no longer tormenting the world. As they bundled up and settled down for the flight back to New York, Peter tucked between Tony and Natasha, the mutant's eyes watched the last string of his ten and a half years of hell as it was obscured into oblivion by the pure white snow. A small, content smile crossed his face as he relaxed for the first time in years. He forgot about the uncertainties of the future for the moment as sleep finally came to claim the exhausted spider's attention. There was still work to be done, the heroes knew. But they didn't matter for the moment.

The last thought in Peter's mind as he drifted into a dreamless sleep was the final important date. The date that he was freed from HYDRA, the day that he could start learning how to be human again.

April 11th, 2017.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus concludes the HYDRA portion of the Iolaus arc! There's still five more chapters before the Iolaus arc itself concludes and before we head into the Strange Encounters arc, but we've finally reached the main portion of this series's core premise; Peter learning how to be human and what it means to be a hero!
> 
> Next time on OWOW: They weren't ready for how complicated the situation was when they walked into it, and now they have to deal with the consequences.
> 
> Discord: https://discord.gg/7jYYC36


	11. Mending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and the Avengers get medical treatment at the Compound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it says here... *squints at the smudge on my hand* ...that it's been a while since I uploaded! Whoops, sorry! I've got my muse back though! So here we are with the resume of OWOW!

His rest was not dreamless long. The moving of the Quinjet and the accompanying hum of the engine, buzzing through the airborne vehicle, helped plumb through the depths of his repressed vaulted memories. _The details were static in his head, buzzing at the edges of his conscious, of staring out the window one lonely July night, watching the sky for airplanes, trying to trace the horizon for his disappearing parents. Everything was blurred and muddled, the only stagnant prominence being an underlying bad feeling that something had gone wrong outside of his Aunt's and Uncle's nigh-forgotten apartment._ The Quinjet tilted smoothly to adjust its course, and the minute movement took his thoughts elsewhere, away from the foggy remnants of a life long deceased. _The small World War II era plane was sketchy and small, domed but encased in rustic marks from years of disuse and leaks in its storage. His feet moved automatically to board the rickety bucket of metal, and he placed himself into a seat rigidly, staring straight ahead as the soldiers coming with him to monitor filed in. It was the first time he had to fly to a mission. He reasonably knew it would be impossible to walk or drive to Germany from the room he'd been holed up in the New York area, but the reasoning wasn't enough to dissuade the blossoming fear in his stomach at being in the metal death trap._

'It's been a good four and a half years since they died to the plane crash, Peter.' _The dark voice_ _whispered in response to the unwanted emotion. '_ Do you want the mask to slip?'

_But the fear wasn't something he could help; he'd had nightmares for weeks after being taken in by May and Ben regarding planes, he was sure. The details slipped through his fingers on what happened in them, the only lingering remnant being that planes were dangerous and deadly. He had been petrified of the flying vehicles since, though, part of him reasoned, it was a rather trivial fear compared to the last three years._

Don't think about it. _The voice_ _hissed disapprovingly._

_But thinking about it was all Peter could do now._

* * *

The Quinjet was as smooth as ever to the other occupants on the plane who, after boarding the vehicle, had settled down for the long ride. Clint was in the pilot's seat, keeping an eye on the controls despite the Quinjet being on autopilot. Tony had just gotten out of his suit, having it stand to the side in a deactivated position, when the kid had plopped in the seat next to him. Natasha went to the other side of the kid, a look Tony couldn't read on her face as they flew away from the remnants of HYDRA, left to the snow. Peter fell asleep shortly afterwards, curled in the seat and head bowed rather awkwardly with the broken prosthetics. An ache shot through Tony's face as he took in the damage the spiderling had; he still looked rather emaciated from the two week stint he pulled (and, in Tony's opinion, he was already underfed; his ribs had been an inch away from countable under the simple black unitard the kid had been wearing that they had the decency to leave on, and that was before he'd been on the streets fighting for his life), and the bags under his eyes were prominent, a sickly purplish black to his pale scarred face. A line of long-dried blood trailed from his left eyebrow to his chin, and the torn fabric on his chest rustled under his silent breaths. Despite the blood and grime that coated him, it appeared the worst of his physical wounds had mended themselves shut. It pained Tony to see such a small kid lay in such a rigid position, but there was a notable looseness to his shoulders that the billionaire hadn't seen a single instance in the presence of the former asset in any prior moment he'd paid attention. He was somewhat relaxed for what was probably the first time in many years.

Tony didn't want to disturb the kid, and he knew while the kid had super healing, most of them that had gotten the brunt of the injuries did not. Rhodey's leg supports had taken a hit in the rubble, as well as an unfortunate rib. He was currently sitting on the other side of the Quinjet, talking quietly to an undisturbed Vision, who was acting as a pillow for the sleeping Wanda, who was probably trying to sleep off the headache from the rock that had knocked her on the head in her impromptu shielding. It wasn't serious, thankfully. Natasha was methodically wrapping an arm in gauze from where it had been clipped by one of the tongues of fire, and T'Challa was on the phone with Shuri, catching his sister up on what had went down. Sam had taken off his damaged gear and placed it by the damaged arm Bucky had opted to take off, and the two were in a somewhat awkwardly seated circle with Scott (with the three leaning over each other in the conjoining seats) to see if any of them had injuries that needed immediate First Aid. Bruce was holding the kit in-hand, reorganizing the supplies left-over from when he and Steve had done their round in the Quinjet, doling out the materials to the companions who needed it.

Tony's left arm hurt like hell, and the list of injuries didn't look pretty for the bedraggled heroes, but the philanthropist was well aware it could've been worse. Most of their injuries were from the battle with Ross's lackeys and Winter Soldiers, with a few residual hits from the collapsing building. If they weren't as formidable as they were... Tony knew they would be among the many that had a grave among the burning cinders and the billowing snow that was, more than likely, burying the ruins. He had already called up Helen and the other medical staff for the Compound and let them know what to expect for their general recovery, though, for once, he found himself holding back the exact details from Helen Cho. He knew she was a formidable doctor, and had helped them through their scrapes before, but something about the situation made him hesitant to voice it. Perhaps it was because he didn't know what to _say_ about the situation.

It was wild to the genius that 20 days ago they had been made aware that a dangerous assassin under HYDRA's thumb was after the targets on their backs. It was weird to think that 3 days afterwards, they had met and identified the assassin. It was absurd to remember that the following 12 days had been spent painstakingly tailing the assassin and trying to earn his trust, and that 5 days later they would be helping that assassin free himself from the torture he'd been imprisoned in. His eyes had automatically fallen to stare at the aforementioned killer, and if Tony hadn't wanted to ruin the mood, he would've scoffed at the odd turn of events. How could he dream of saying that they were bringing home the person that had been attempting to kill them not even a month priorly because said person was a fourteen year old kid? It sounded ludicrous in thought, let alone in word. He was too exhausted to compile a convincing lie and too worried to tell her the truth about the kid they were returning with.

Seven hours into the return trip, his thoughts were distracted by the kid's brows furrowing, and Tony, now alert, watched as Peter's shoulders tensed, face scrunching slightly as his body drew closer to itself and became more rigid. He hadn't moved much, but it was enough to draw the eye if one wasn't preoccupied. It looked like the spiderling was having a nightmare. He reached out a hand to see if he could gently wake the kid up, and noticed Natasha following his movement, but his hand immediately jerked back when Peter gasped silently awake, shooting up from the hunched position he had been in, eyes wide and pupils pinpricks. His prosthetic arm jerkily responded to the motion before flopping back into his lap as his feet moved to the floor. His breaths were silent, but his chest moved fast, before slowing as he took in his surroundings. The others had now noticed, and the kid seemed to shrink under the gazes.

He looked around for a second, head swiveling to observe what was within arm's length, before the kid deflated. His flesh hand rubbed nervously against the mangled prosthetic arm before he croaked, "Bad dream." His voice was hoarse and scratchy, broken and quiet from disuse. Tony frowned, making a note to give Peter a phone when the billionaire first was able to. His voice would need strengthening over time from years of disuse; texting in the interim would be the better option.

A brief silence accompanied the soft words, before the others that were awake went back to what they had priorly been doing. Tony caught Natasha's stare from the other side of the kid, and he sighed quietly, shooting her a minute shrug while Peter's focus was elsewhere. He wanted to comfort the spiderling, but it wasn't the smartest move when the teenager was so newly freed from years of poor treatment. Even though his heart ached to give the kid a hug to help him down from the nightmare, it wasn't the smartest move. So, with three hours left of the flight, Tony tried something else. He had long since taken his suit off, so the philanthropist reached into his pocket and pulled his phone out. He held it out for Peter to see, the movement followed by an unreadable gaze. "Here."

Peter's brows furrowed, and his head tilted slightly to the side as he contemplated the device. Tentatively, he grabbed the phone in hand, squinting at it and the buttons curiously. His fingers found the power button, and the phone screen turned on. The kid flinched back the slightest bit, before his gaze widened in curiosity. A small grin crossed Tony's face at the former asset's behavior; he was like a cat examining a toy. Tony reached over, slowly, holding his palm open. Understanding, Peter placed it back in Tony's hand. With a larger smile, Tony unlocked the phone, before placing it back in Peter's hand. "It's a phone." Wait, would he know what a phone was? Pursing his lips, the man added, like the genius he was, "It's, uh, a small portable computer!"

The kid's wide-eyed curiosity was momentarily soured by the kid staring up at Tony, head tilted further to the side. _Okay, that was... probably not the smartest analogy._ Well, there was nothing better than demonstrating it, anyways. He tapped a notepad app, then pressed the 'New' button. "This will let you type messages out so you don't have to strain your voice." Crap, did Peter know how to write? Tony's brow furrowed, before he added, "Uh, well..." he tapped the body of the message to get the keyboard to pop up. He typed _Hello :)_ in the space provided, leaning back from the kid. "You can use the keyboard to do it, like that."

The mutant pursed his lips, before setting the phone on his lap since it was a bit hard to type with one hand. His left hand jerkily pressed to the screen until the letter input, and after a few minutes, he tapped Tony's arm again, then held the screen up to the man. _What was that explanation?_ The screen read.

Tony internally sighed in relief that Peter was getting it. Rolling his eyes playfully, he chimed, "It worked, didn't it, Pete?"

Peter blinked, nose scrunched at the nickname. He got rid of the message, before writing another at his slow, single-handed pace. When he was finished, it read, _Please don't call me that._

A small frown dressed the older man's face, but he nodded. "Alright, Peter."

Peter backspaced, then put in, _Thank you._

"You're welcome."

_What does a phone do?_ The message came. The displeased expression from Peter's face was gone, replaced by poorly masked curiosity.

"I'll show you."

* * *

"We will be arriving at the Compound in fifteen minutes." FRIDAY's voice chimed through the Quinjet.

Had that much time passed already? Peter was surprised, if not a tad thrown off. He'd grown so accustomed to keeping track of time as well as he could when awake that it had become second nature. Yet, during the entire demonstration of the phone, courtesy of Tony Stark, the mutant hadn't had half a mind to pay attention to their progress. The device he had been handed was the most interesting piece of technology he had seen in a long time. It was capable of doing so much! He itched to take it apart and look at the components, see if there was something to make it more efficient, but this particular device wasn't his. When he asked, though, Tony assured him he would get his own when it first became available.

Now he was feeling nervous as they approached the ground, shifting slightly in his seat. He had only briefly been in the vicinity of the building once after he'd escaped it; it was a rendezvous with the Avengers to gather more supplies, though he hadn't risked entering the building. He hadn't wanted to be seen by the SHIELD trainees then. They were still there that day, no doubt, and would probably have a lot of questions about the shady, scarred child accompanying the renowned superheroes. He began to quietly regulate his breathing, eyes shutting and fist clenching slightly to focus. _Don't panic, Peter._ He thought. _You're going to be okay._

_Can we be sure of that?_ The dark voice at the back of his mind supplied idly, given rise now that his distraction was no longer the center of attention. _You somehow managed to win the affection of the heroes, but what about SHIELD? What about the government? They'll come knocking eventually._

_Shut up._ Peter's breathing became a little less refined and a bit more ragged. _It'll... it should be... it should be fine! Yeah. It..._

He was broken out of his thoughts by Tony gently tapping his arm, which made him jump slightly. "Sorry," the man responded apologetically. "You just looked nervous, so I wanted to let you know that, whatever happens, I'll have your back. Alright? I don't give a shit what SHIELD or the government or whoever else thinks about you. You deserve a second chance, and I'll do whatever I can to give it to you. I'm sure the others feel the same way. Just sit back and let us take care of it. Does that sound good to you, Peter?"

Peter vaguely wondered how obvious his anxiousness must've been for the comment to come up. The words were kind, but he wasn't quite sure how valid they could be. What was the relation between SHIELD, the government, and the Avengers, anyways? _Were the Avengers the higher power, was SHIELD, or was the government? Would the Avengers be enough in the face of his crimes to fend off prosecution?_ He thought, chewing the inside of his cheek. He was thankful for the support, regardless. He just didn't feel he could be worth it. Nevertheless, he tapped Tony's arm to respond, since the phone was back with its rightful owner. Y-E-S. T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-U.

The man smiled, but before he could respond, FRIDAY chimed in, "Touching down in approximately five minutes. Please follow landing procedures."

Peter watched the others that had been standing sit, and he curled up tighter in his own seat in response. He hadn't moved from the seat, incapable of moving far with the damaged prosthetics and harboring some distrust towards the jet despite having ridden on it on the way to Siberia. He was already buckled in, but the clicks rang across the space. Focusing on his hearing, he followed the vehicle's movement as the landing gear was brought out. It slowed and touched down, landing gently on the tarmac with a slight jolt. They unbuckled then stood, with everyone grabbing their stuff. Peter had nothing to grab, since everything he needed was on his person, though frowned as he unbuckled himself. How was he going to get off the Quinjet when he could barely amble along on the mangled prosthetic foot?

"Need a hand?" Natasha asked him, noticing his predicament. Peter gave a hesitant nod, and took the assassin's hand in his own functional one to pull himself up.

Once up, he had to place his good hand back on the seat to steady himself, the prosthetic arm dangling limply as he bent to maintain balance. He let out a quiet breath, brows furrowing. How in the hell was he going to get off of the Quinjet when he was toting around two malfunctioning chunks of metal screwed and clasped to his body?

"Here." His head turned sharply to spot Tony sidling up to one side, arm opened so Peter could wrap his good arm around the man's neck. His suit was at alert behind him, and Peter was momentarily distracted by the fact that it was able to _move on its own._ He'd have to freak out about that later.

With Natasha helping balance him on the other side, Peter snaked his hand around Tony's neck and shoulder, and the three slowly made their way out of the Quinjet once the bay door was opened. It wasn't as fast as Peter would've liked it to be, admittedly, but he kept nearly stepping down on the bent prosthetic foot and tripping. It was rectified, though before that he had almost had a painful reminder that it was no longer functional when he biffed it against a divot in the ridged descent. They were the last off of the Quinjet thanks to this, but Tony and Natasha didn't seem to mind, and Peter wasn't keen to bring it up.

He got another good look at the Compound, and anxiety clawed at his throat, stealing his breath for a few moments before he swallowed thickly. Now that he wasn't preoccupied with studying the building from a tactition's standpoint, it was quite the sight to behold. It reminded him of warehouses he had seen around, but it was spruced up to look like a genuine base. The buildings looked sleek and modern, with a driveway leading up to the building, along with parking spaces. The entire area was surrounded in clearings and trees, with lights installed along the sides of the streets to keep the facility's roads lit when it got dark. The Avengers logo hung proudly on its face, marking the building's purpose for anyone that came.

Entering the building, Peter's senses were assaulted by the chaos of the building as they entered the medical bay. Doctors and nurses raced to and fro, shouting orders, dragging equipment and medicine, and getting prepped for treating their newly arrived patients. Peter tensed at the commotion, his senses spiking at the overwhelming environment. The cacophony of noise, sharp scents, and movement was making his head reel from the input. His spine straightened and his flesh hand clenched into a fist from where it was wrapped around the back of Tony's neck, and his breathing quickened.

Noting this, Tony flashed a worried look at Natasha, whose brow was furrowing. "The room's too chaotic," Natasha said softly, barely loud enough for Tony to hear. Peter cringed anyways. She only had scratches, burns, bruises, and a sprained wrist, but that was something she could live with. "I can stay by Peter's side, Tony. You-"

They were interrupted by Helen Cho, who, upon spotting them, was weaving her way through the chaos to approach the group. Her gaze fixed curiously on Peter, before giving Tony a raised brow. "It's been a while since you've had to call me, Stark," she stated, letting her eyes drift over to Natasha before staring at Peter again. A small smile cracked across her lips. "Who's this? I didn't think you dealt with anyone younger than an adult."

"Very funny, Helen," Tony said softly, mindful of the boy he was helping hold up that seemed to grow more uncomfortable by the moment. "Could we get Peter into a quieter room?"

Noting his pained expression, Helen gave a nod, and beckoned the three of them to follow her. They made their way slowly through the crowd, Natasha and Tony acting as buffers to keep people from bumping into Peter. They entered the room Peter had, ironically, woken up in after his initial attack on the Compound. Natasha and Tony helped Peter over to the bed, and the mutant sat on the edge, his expression more lax now that he was further from the chaos. If he focused, he could still hear the noise, but it was blessedly muted.

Helen frowned, pointing a pen at Peter. "Are you making a habit of bringing kids into fights? I'll admit that's something I could've seen Tony doing, but Natasha, I expected better."

Natasha rolled her eyes at the tease. "We were brought into his fight, more like." She let out a sigh, scrubbing her face with her unsprained hand. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go get myself patched up real quick so I can sit with Peter." With that, the ex-assassin left the room.

Tony could practically feel Helen's questioning gaze burrowing into him. He sighed, absentmindedly running a hand down his goatee. "I'll explain it all later. Can you help Peter first?" Yes, he was injured, but as far as he was concerned, the kid had been hurting for far longer and deserved some _proper_ treatment.

Helen looked like she wanted to press further, but held back. Instead she grabbed a clipboard and a pen. Clicking it open, she turned to Peter and asked, "Alright, what should be dealt with first and foremost?"

Peter's eyes twitched slightly, and Tony stepped in before the line of questioning could go further. "He... doesn't really speak much right now." The billionaire let out a breath. "Uh, let's see... he's got a healing factor, but it doesn't seem to be working fast at the moment since he was on the run the last two weeks. We can deal with the rest later."

Helen's frown deepened, and a shocked look crossed her face. "He was on the _run_?" She asked incredulously. She huffed out a breath, knowing Tony wasn't going to explain now. She'd just have to wait until later. "An IV drip will be administered, and we can dress his others injuries from there. His clothes will need to come off, excepting undergarments. Those prosthetics will also have to go," she was perplexed how they had gotten so mangled in the first place. "They're not working, why leave them on?"

Tony nodded to that, exhaustion tugging at his bones. With a quick glance into the hallway, he said, "Thanks, Helen. Take good care of him, will you?" He then went to leave the room, but was stopped by a sudden strangled noise from Peter. Looking back, the kid looked terrified, hand clenching the bed tight enough that it was starting to tear the fabric. He frowned, before realizing that Peter's only real experiences with anything hospital had likely not been pleasant. No wonder he wouldn't want to be alone.

It tore at his heart that he couldn't stay with Peter, but he needed his own treatment. The philanthropist turned to the ceiling and said, "FRIDAY, can you send any Avenger that got off relatively unscathed this way once they're done, if they want to come? At least one of them would be fine." There was no way he was going to leave the kid unattended with people he knew far less than the hero team when he was clearly spooked. To Peter, he affirmed, "Don't worry kid, I'll stay until someone else comes, okay?"

"Yes, boss." FRIDAY stated.

Peter swallowed thickly, before nodding hesitantly. Part of him berated him for being so weak, but he couldn't help the fear and nausea that crept up on him at the prospect of being alone with a doctor. It reminded him too strongly of- _Don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it._ His grip on the mattress relaxed, and he watched with some gratefulness as Tony sat in a chair nearby. He hoped everything would go by quickly, so he could get it over with.

* * *

He'd nearly panicked when it came time to insert the IV drip. He'd never been a fan of needles, and that fear had only grown worse with the poking and prodding HYDRA had done to him as a young child. Sensing this, Tony had given him a breathing exercise, providing a helpful distraction to the mutant. He hadn't even felt the drip being inserted into the crook of his elbow, and when Helen had said she was done, he had stared at it with some trepidation. It seemed safe, though, but the wariness at whatever happened to fill the bag hadn't dropped much at the reassurance it would help.

Then, it was time to remove his suit. Peter was more than ready to get out of the outfit, more than willing to get out of _anything_ associated with HYDRA. The symbol on the chest of the destroyed society stared up at him mockingly as he stripped down to the black unitard. He pursed his lips, suddenly self-conscious of what his body would look like. Admittedly, he didn't get to see it often, but he knew it was a mess of scars and malnourishment. A quiet sigh was followed by the inner layer coming off, exposing his pale skin, tattooed with scars. The only article of clothing left on him were a pair of boxers, exposing his mutilated body in its fullest.

Tony couldn't help the sharp inhale that followed seeing the kid's exposed body for the first time. He had read that the kid had been through hell, but seeing it made the reality of the information he had been granted real. If he hadn't seen the horrors he had in his line of work, he was sure he would've been nauseous at Peter's body. A quick glance over at Helen confirmed she was feeling similarly, with the doctor's eyes wide and her mouth slightly agape. He couldn't blame her; he wouldn't have thought it was this bad, and he had the background information to work off of.

Scars littered his flesh like a tapestry. A sickeningly long one stretched from his left shoulder to just under his right-side ribs. A long-healed burn marred a good portion of his right side, going from mid-back and wrapping around to his stomach. Four slashes, diagonal and layered crisscross, rested above his heart. Various cuts and nicks of all shapes and sizes danced across his skin, some with the precision of a surgeon and others that were ragged tears from a situation long past. His flesh arm was sleeved with the marks of battles long waged, with the residual signs of electrical burn sizzling up his palm to his mid-forearm in a Lichtenberg Figure. His legs seemed to have received a fair brunt of damage as well, with one particularly nasty, jagged one running from his right hip and twisting around to the inside of his right leg, ending at the ankle. Three scars stood out to Tony the most, though.

The first was the site where his flesh foot used to be on his left leg. The flesh looked jagged, as if the foot had been cut off with a handsaw, with torn, long-healed edging lining the seamless integration of the mechanical foot. The second was the one that made up where his right arm used to be. It looked to have been haphazardly removed without a care, circling the spot it had once occupied in a wreath of scar tissue. The last was the one that _really_ caught his attention, though. A HYDRA mark, etched jaggedly in the middle of his superior trapeziuses. The skull and tentacles, though rough and small, seemed to stare mockingly at the hero when he spotted it. Anger began to burn deep in the pit of his stomach at the thought that they had _carved_ that onto the kid, as if declaring the mutant was their property.

The silence was broken by an uncomfortable shuffle from Peter, who had been watching the two in growing apprehension. His gaze dropped to stare at his lap instead, where he got a good view of his ribs and slightly atrophied muscles. Admittedly, this wasn't much different from what he was used to seeing, and he remembered being much, much skinnier a few years back. Regardless, he knew it wasn't great that he could count his ribs. He was thankful his body hadn't shut down on him.

Helen seemed to snap out of her stupor first. She took the unitard from Peter and set it to the side, before voicing, "If you don't mind, Peter, your prosthetics should be taken off. Is there a way to do so safely?"

Tony watched the kid consider the proposal, and a flicker of worry coursed through Tony. He hadn't seen the kid without the prosthetics; he'd only seen him strap the arm to his side and fix it when it had gotten broken before. What if the prosthetics were stuck to his body? That thought was cut off quickly, however, by Peter reaching his arm across to the limp prosthetic arm. His fingers deftly pried up three clasps, one on both sides and the top, then moved to the circle on the center of the shoulder. His fingers seemed to gain traction on the otherwise smooth surface, and soon he was using three fingers to spin the circle counterclockwise. The arm steadily unscrewed from its position, and Peter stopped when it reached the end of the screw. He took the metal arm off and set it to the side, exposing the implanted metal screw and plate that kept the bone and flesh underneath from being exposed. He then proceeded to lean down and do the same procedure with his foot, spinning the heel this time, before sitting it beside the arm when it was off.

"Oh." Helen coughed, taken aback. She had fully expected to help Peter get them off. The fact that he got them off so easily worried her. How often had he taken them off and put them back on to get to the point where he was able to do so easily with his one flesh hand? Straightening out, she said, "Thank you." She wasn't thrilled to see the fresh cuts, bruises, and burns, though they were admittedly hard to tell apart from the old, healed ones. "With that out of the way, we can fix you up the rest of the way." She offered him a smile. "This shouldn't take long."

* * *

Peter huffed out a breath from his position on the bed. The wheelchair they had given him wasn't too far away, but he'd never had the chance to use one before. He'd been shown how it worked, though, so he, in theory, could work it. The issue was getting _into_ the wheelchair. It was right beside the bed in case he wanted to move around while his prosthetics were scrapped, but that was the exact issue; it was hard to maneuver with his body wrapped in gauze and ointments, with no right arm and the nub of a left leg.

After some careful consideration, he removed the IV from his arm, then slowly yet surely eased himself off of the bed and into the wheelchair, wincing slightly when he hit his leg against the sturdy bed frame. He twisted in the wheelchair from where he had entered on his side, straightening into a sitting position and settling his lone foot into the provided foot rest. He was beyond grateful it was a mechanical wheelchair. He had been shown the normal wheelchair, at first, but Bruce, who was with him at the time, had shot down that proposition quickly, taking into account that he only had one arm to push the wheelchair with. So, with some strings pulled by Tony, who had heard from the room next door, he was given one he could control with a small control panel on the left-hand side.

It felt rather constricting to have his movement restricted to the device, but it was _infinitely_ better than crawling. With that thought in mind, he wheeled out of the room. The hallways were, thankfully, quieter as the day carried on and the heroes were tended to. Most of the help had gone home, with the necessary staff moving in and out of the rooms periodically. He made his way down the hallway a short bit, peeking into the rooms he passed by to see if he spotted anyone. Surprisingly, most of the rooms were empty. A small frown brushed his features at this.

Moving further down the hallway proved fruitful, as he heard the starts of a conversation. Curious and lonely, he whirred down the hallway, coming across two open doorways filled with light. A quick glance inside showed a few of the heroes looking to a shared spot outside of his view. The two rooms seemed to be conjoined. He wheeled up to the door, and caught a glimpse of what, or rather who, they were all staring at; Nick Fury. The conversation had been in a lull as he'd been approaching, but now it seemed to have resumed. "Look, I'm just the messenger." Fury sighed, a look of slight annoyance on his face. "I'd be more than happy to tell the UN that they could take their bitching elsewhere, but they're insisting."

Peter hovered by the doorway as Steve, sitting on a chair next to Bucky (the latter of which was loosely dressed in gauze and on the edge of one of the beds) voiced, "He's in no condition to be interrogated, and we're in no position for that, either. And watch your language!"

"I can't believe you're still keeping that alive after all these years." Clint grinned, while Wanda buried her head in her hands, laughing. Vision squeezed her arm gently from where his arm was draped around her shoulders, slightly concerned for his tired lover.

Bruce exchanged a glance with Natasha, both of which had slight smirks on their face at the comment, knowing full well it was Steve's inside joke meant to relieve some of the tension. Natasha's gaze caught Peter hovering by the doorway, and the smile faded slightly, replaced by concern. Scott and Sam were sitting off to the side, both sitting on the edge of Rhodey's occupied bed. Sam had a bandage above his eyebrow and on his cheek, and Scott's left arm was wrapped in gauze to stave off a burn he'd gotten while shrunken. Rhodey's torso was loosely bandaged, and one of his feet was in a cast and elevated.

Tony and Pepper were seated just in view, the closest to Nick. Tony's left arm had been sprained and was wrapped, and he was sporting a shiner on his right eye. Pepper was dressed immaculately, as if she had just finished a meeting and had come to visit upon hearing they had returned. Tony seemed to be lost in thought, before he took it upon himself to get the conversation back on-topic. "That's a political nightmare I don't really want to touch," he pinched the bridge of his nose. "The UN's rushing it, demanding an explanation immediately. If we went now, anyways, without a break, they'd be more than willing to use Peter as a scapegoat-"

Peter wheeled quietly into the room, realizing this was a conversation he was going to be present in, even if they didn't like that he was. With the others now noting his presence, the conversation paused awkwardly. That... wasn't what the mutant expected to happen, to be honest. Nervousness fluttered in his stomach at the worry that he might've overstepped his bounds. Now that he was here, though, there wasn't any way to back out. So, shyly, he raised his hand and waved, croaking a rough, "Hello."

Nick let out a breath. "Speak of the devil..." he muttered softly, but not soft enough for Peter's enhanced hearing to miss it. The former SHIELD director straightened. "Hello, Peter. We were just discussing the UN and your future."

The mutant maneuvered the wheelchair over to be by Tony's side, a questioning look on his face. With a frown, he began, "Why is the U-" before his throat rebelled, the itchy feeling overwhelming. He cringed back with barely repressed coughs. For once in a long time he was genuinely begrudging the forced muteness HYDRA had instilled. Noting his difficulty, Tony once more offered his phone. After typing the message, he turned the TTS feature on so the rest of the room could hear it, too.

"'Why is the UN involved, and what does that have to do with me?'" FRIDAY read aloud from the phone's speaker.

"I'm presuming you know about the UN?" Nick asked, to which Peter offered a quiet nod and a slight shrug, showing he'd heard about it but admittedly hadn't known many specifics. So, to cover it, the man continued, "The UN is the intergovernmental organization that helps maintain international peace and security. All 193 countries have been working with us the past two months to establish the Sokovia Accords, a regulation on superpowered individuals and enhanced. Thaddeus Ross was one of the US representatives and was the one who proposed the original, limiting Accords." His words were met by uncomfortable shifts throughout the room, and Peter could practically taste the bitterness. "Ross was a member of the UN that was actively trying to usurp it from the shadows, under all of our noses, until you came to light. The files we managed to recover are damning, both for Ross... and for you."

"We couldn't get many specifics, both from the files Faulers gave us and the ones we raided from HYDRA before we met up. During our return trip, while you were asleep, Faulers took the files and gave them to the UN. Needless to say... they're pissed," Steve's arms were folded, and the man out of time sounded tired and worn. "Even without exact details, the evidence would've been enough to have Ross incarcerated. You're the only living remnant from that operation, so the UN is scared."

"And you're the perfect scapegoat since you also happen to be the one who dealt most of those crimes, even though you were being forced to. They're pissed and want justice. I didn't think Ross could piss off so many countries simultaneously." Bucky huffed.

Peter frowned slightly at that, though he stilled as memories began to swirl inside of his head, etched in blood and tears. With a shaky hand, he had FRIDAY read, "'They didn't care who or what got in the way. If someone was in their way, I got rid of them.'" His hand stilled slightly, breathing getting a bit more ragged, before he forced himself to add, with FRIDAY's vocalization, "'Anyone. Didn't matter where or how, if they were around the target and could pose a problem, they were killed.'"

"Which is why the UN wants to settle the matter immediately," Fury sighed, weary. "I'll tell the UN to hold off for a week or two so you all can get your bearings, but that's all the time I can buy you." He moved past the group to the doors, turning to offer a final word. "I figured you would want to know. I will be back later with their official word on the matter."

The man walked off, leaving the group to ruminate by themselves. Peter controlled his breathing once more, careful not to clench his fist too tightly on the wheelchair. He was exhausted, and dizzy from moving away from the IV drip. He passed Tony his phone back, offering a small wave before wheeling out. He could think about _that_ mess later, when his head wasn't spinning so badly. The mutant made it back to the room he was staying in, then slowly got back out of the wheelchair by using it as a stool for his foot to push off of and using his arm to drag himself into the bed. He picked up the IV's needle, looked away, then inserted it back into the crook that had been left in the gauze. Sinking back into the bed with a quiet sigh, he stared at the ceiling, mind swirling with a million and one indiscernible thoughts. He drifted off shortly after, with one thought on his mind.

_What will I do now that I'm free?_

He didn't have an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter needs some therapy, don't he?
> 
> Hehehehehe.
> 
> Next time on OWOW: Memories can be painful, but the best distraction is learning!
> 
> Discord: https://discord.gg/7jYYC36


	12. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To help distract from a nightmare, Peter helps share some knowledge on what he knows educationally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we get an F in the chat for Peter's sleep schedule?

_The scent of antiseptic was strong, overwhelmingly so, as it was pressed to his body. His breathing felt ragged and torn, and he couldn't seem to get enough oxygen into his body. He ached, and he was sure that if he wasn't so out of it, the amount of pain would be crippling. As it was, it buzzed on the edges of his senses, barely out of touch but foggily in sight. If he swam closer to true consciousness, he was sure it would be there, waiting for him. The thought almost made him want to slip back into the folds of unconsciousness._

_But then came the sharp, stinging memory flooding back into his thoughts at the notion of falling asleep, and he nearly shot upright, if not for how weak he was and the straps keeping him restrained to the table. His flesh was dressed in gauze and bandages, some of which were soaked through with blood before the wound had been able to close. He didn't want to fall asleep, no, no, not now. His jaw clenched and he swore he could taste blood in his mouth from biting down so hard._

_Blood, something so precious. No, no, he couldn't lose anymore. He felt himself distantly choke on the blood, before foggy faces removed the liquid from his mouth, coughing hoarsely to expel any residual liquid before the wound closed itself. He felt hands press down on his body, keeping it still, shouting words he could barely discern were meant for his well-being, to get the soldiers on standby to keep him from disturbing his raw and healing wounds any more than they had been._

_His heart beat erratically in his chest, but he couldn't focus on how fast it was racing; the only thing his mind could fixate on was that it was_ beating. _It had stopped, hadn't it? He was sure it had. There had been so much blood outside of his body... had his heart not had enough to circulate? His memory was foggy. What had he been doing, earlier? It was hard to picture anything outside of the crippling weakness that clung to his form like a weighted blanket._

_He went to flex the fingers on his right hand, but no response was met. Right. He'd... he'd been told to remove his own ring finger. He pretended to do it because he couldn't stand the thought of losing one of his only two fingers on that hand that was still flesh. They hadn't liked that. They'd hurt his eye and had him get rid of the pinky finger. He remembered the saw, that dreaded saw. He remembered trying to look away but being unable to, sobbing, trying to clamp down on his screams as he worked the saw through his own flesh, through his own bone, until the finger dropped to his feet. He had, too, the saw clattering to the side as he'd clutched his bleeding right hand in agony. After that, it was a blur. They hadn't been happy that he'd reacted so emotionally. They... they did a test on him. He felt his back arch as he tried to lift away from the dreaded table he'd been strapped to, the same one he was on now. That stupid scalpel, those stupid knives, that dumb saw... they had been traced along his flesh, some barely grazing the capillaries, others wedging deep enough to brush marrow. It was all he could do to keep from screaming and making the torment worse._

_But there was so much blood._ Too _much blood, flowing an unnatural dark magenta, edging crimson. Something about his weird mutant blood was said, he was sure, but the details escaped him. He couldn't see the blood, but he didn't_ need _to; he could feel his life force ebbing out steadily, through too many wounds for his enhanced healing to cooperate with. It tried to prioritize the wounds, but ultimately, the lack of strength, food, water, and proper treatment left it unprepared for such abuse._

_His body began shutting down. His heart had less and less blood to circulate. His organs began to feel like lead. Then his lungs gave out, and he gasped like a fish, desperate to find air, any air at all. His vision gave out, his senses muddled, until nothing seemed to matter anymore. He was collapsing to the static at the back of his head, and he welcomed it with open arms._

_The constant thrumming of his chest gave one weak sputter, before giving up, too._

* * *

Peter shot awake with a gasp, before coughing wildly, trying to fill his lungs with air. His senses were haywire, freaking out from the memory. His hand scrabbled at his chest, desperate to get a grip from underneath the simple comfortable clothing he'd been lent so he didn't have to stay in his old stuff. Without consciously realizing it, he'd shrugged the shirt off to the side, enough to where his wild eyes could see his chest and the scars there. Then, his hand moved to his pulse point on his neck, lingering. His hands picked up on the thrumming vibrations of life, and he let out a quiet, relieved huff at that, hand shakily dropping to his lap and body falling back into the bed. His hand was clammy and his body was covered in tremors, but he couldn't help the broken, quiet laugh that snaked jaggedly out of his lips.

 _You're alive, Peter._ He reminded himself, pressing his palm to his eyes and covering them, head tilted to the ceiling. _It was just a memory, Peter. It's been years since you died. You're fine now._

But he couldn't shake the memory of that first death. Even though he'd tasted it twice afterwards, nothing beat the erratic fear he harbored towards the first. Of his life force slipping between his fingers, staining his surroundings in the unnatural dark magenta. A part of his mind knew it wasn't the _death_ he really feared anymore, though. His body had been willing to accept the out, and so too had his mind. Back then, he'd only been with H- _them_ four months.

No, it wasn't dying that made that memory so stark in his mind. It was being _revived_ that kept his mind anxious and his thoughts wild. Because it would've been too kind of H- _them_ to let their forced captive go so early, having gone too far with their own conditioning. His hand absentmindedly hovered over his heart, over the four slashes across it, before finding its way to the large burn on his right side. Where that dreaded defibrillator, used thrice, had shocked the hardest to tether his soul to his body, to keep his mind from leaving his flesh. He supposed if one looked hard enough, they could see the imprints of the electrode pads there. He was thankful the one near his left-side collarbone was faint. The mutant had enough physical and mental reminders of the experience; he didn't need another noticeable one.

Movement in his peripheral caught his attention, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when he noticed Natasha. When had she entered the room? He frowned, before realizing that FRIDAY must've caught on to his distress and alerted the former assassin. He groaned inwardly, cursing his luck. He'd only been there three days and he'd already bothered them, waking up on the verge of panic from a nightmare, for every one of them. He craned his neck to the side to spot the time. _8_ _:49 AM. Great._ Peter had only been asleep for three hours, then. Fantastic. He'd been afraid of sleeping for this exact reason, yet it had still happened.

"Are you alright, маленький паук?" She asked, taking a seat in one of the chairs nearby, quietly moving it closer so she could hover by his bedside.

Peter pursed his lips, not quite sure how to feel about _little spider_ as a nickname, especially when it had only priorly been associated with the Russian-speaking goons he'd been forced under. However, he didn't really feel _uncomfortable_ about it, not as uncomfortable as when Tony had called him Pete. Perhaps it was because it was a nickname he was familiar with, or perhaps it was because Natasha herself had been in a similar situation. Regardless of the reason, he furrowed his brow, thinking of the words in his head. Meeting her gaze shyly, he muttered, "Я мог бы быть лучше, большой паук _."_

Natasha seemed taken aback, before a curious smile crossed her face. "You can speak Russian?" Granted, it was hoarse and rough, and his pronunciation was a tad off, but she hadn't thought of the mutant as being multilingual. In hindsight, she shouldn't have really been surprised; he'd been through most of the same training she and Bucky had endured, and Wanda had caught a glimpse of, and they were all multilingual. She supposed her surprise came from the knowledge that he hadn't been allowed to speak, and was shocked that he was able to replicate the language well enough despite his mending vocal chords.

Peter gave a nod to that, thankful for the distraction. He was more than willing to reveal this tidbit about himself if it kept the conversation away from his nightmares. His throat was already beginning to regret the Russian, but, he figured, his throat wasn't exactly going to heal if he didn't strain his voice. Besides, he still lacked a phone of his own, and anything to talk with otherwise. Despite his throat objecting, the former asset continued raggedly, "Russian, German, Mandarin Chinese, Spanish, Hindustani, Arabic, Malay, French, Bengali, Portuguese." He needed to pause, but after letting his throat rest a bit, he added, "Bits and pieces. Common words and phrases. Any language H- _they_ needed me to understand, read, and write in." His voice lost its power after that, and he frowned, before extending his hand out to Natasha. She gave him his palm, and he finished tapping, I-W-E-N-T-A-L-L-O-V-E-R. N-E-E-D-E-D-T-O-K-N-O-W-W-H-A-T-M-Y-S-U-P-E-R-I-O-R-S-W-E-R-E-S-A-Y-I-N-G.

His head lowered at that, and his hand instinctively pulled in, as the memories swirling at the back of his mind came to the forefront. Of visiting many, many different countries, having to understand the material he was being given, so he could blend in. So he could kill and not get caught. Most of his knowledge on words from other languages were from what he could recall being given to him, or hearing as he went to do a hit. A part of him fondly reminisced on some of the odder run-ins in Abidjan, where he hadn't known the specific French words he needed and had to substitute English instead, or the time in Karaj where he'd run into a few cross terrorists that had used curse words he hadn't heard from his superiors before that kept him from understanding their full statement. He frowned internally at the notion that part of him was _nostalgic_ for some of those past, more calm hits from his time of torment. That was something to internalize and worry about later, he supposed.

"Pepper and Tony will be back soon," Natasha informed him, keeping his cold hand in one of her warm ones while she lifted her other hand to brush a stray curl from his face. His hair was getting a bit too long for his liking. When her hand moved away after relocating the curl, he idly wondered why her hand so close to his face, to his scars, hadn't freaked him out. He chalked it up to her being similar enough to his assassin mindset that his mind hadn't really registered it as anything but an extension of his safe space. _That_ was another thing to think about later.

Seeing his confused look, she added, "They went out to get you a phone and some better fitting clothes. You'll be staying here until the UN hearing; I'm sure they want you as comfortable as possible while you heal. And before you worry, Tony should be fine. He wasn't _terribly_ injured, and Pepper can make sure he isn't straining his injured arm."

He wondered if his swiftly grown attachment to each of the heroes was just that readable. The thought was quickly dismissed, though. Natasha had been an assassin, like he was; she knew how to read someone like a book. If anyone could figure out his deepest kept secrets, she'd be the most likely. That thought was both comforting and terrifying. Would the relief that would come from finally letting a piece of his mind out, of relieving some of the burden from his shoulders, be worth the paranoid fear that letting a piece of him slip was a mistake, and would result in his mistreatment? It was unlikely, but it wasn't something his harrowed mind could ignore as a potential possibility if he revealed any of the dark thoughts that clawed at the weaknesses in his brain. He didn't want to burden _anyone_ with his baggage. It was too suffocating, but he was used to hiding it; he'd _had_ to hide it. The rest of them wouldn't be ready to carry the load; it would crush them. That's what his terrified mind supplied in response, anyways.

The thought had only taken a second, so he gave a nod of acknowledgement to the statement, grateful for the news even though he hadn't known he'd needed it. The memory that had woken him up initially had faded into the background, and his mind had calmed to the general buzz of thought that it usually subsisted at. He spent the next little while just quietly exchanging taps with Natasha. discussing words in languages both old and new, seeing what he could remember being taught and he hadn't known before. It was peaceful.

* * *

It was nice, having his own phone. Tony and Pepper had already covered most of the set-up process, but it was interesting to see how it was done. Before he knew it, he was being handed the phone to fiddle with at his own discretion. He'd been warned not to take it apart unless he wanted to be stuck without a way to reliably speak (his voice was still unresponsive, so he had to let it rest before trying again). He couldn't help the curiosity bubbling up inside as he spelunked the many facets the device had to offer, showing things to Pepper and Tony that caught his eye. He was too caught up in his excitement over the technology to note the glances the two sent each other, or their smiles at seeing him enthusiastic and eager about something.

After mistyping something on the note app and having it read in TTS, though, and not knowing what it was, the conversation moved from learning about the phone to his knowledge. It wasn't honestly all that different from the tap conversation he'd had with Natasha earlier, but it wasn't focused on exclusively different languages. The mystery word had led to a search on what the word meant, which made Tony recall that Peter hadn't known what 'okay' had meant. Upon bringing it back up, they spent the next few minutes figuring out exactly what Peter knew and lacked in knowledge.

Did he know basic math? Of course. He knew fragments and pieces of algebra, calculus, logic, and number theory. Mathematical physics was something he'd been internally calculating and putting into practical use with his missions, he just hadn't realized what it was. But beyond the patchwork of math he knew, the rest was unknown to him. Trigonometry, combinatorics, foundations, probability and statistics, arithmetic, he knew bases and parts of their whole but they were largely unfamiliar to the asset, if not foreign.

Language was another complicated point. He knew how to understand, read, and write in multiple languages, and he figured he could speak in them if his voice wasn't so broken, but he wasn't the most _fluent._ He knew words, basic sentences, how to do the basics in making it legible enough to be understood if necessary. But it wasn't enough to consider it a language he _knew._ He found similar struggles arise with his native English language, too. An odd wake-up call to him was finding that words that he'd understood and known from a protocol or order standpoint also had different uses and definitions that weren't the definition he'd been programmed to interpret. Most of his knowledge on what a word meant had earnestly come from context in a sentence with words he _did_ know.

That wasn't even broaching into the topic of literature. He knew how to write, but he hadn't had to do it very often. He knew how to read, but hadn't had much in regards to reading material besides hit information. As it stood, he knew _how_ to string together sentences, could guess where words belonged and didn't by what felt right, but his comprehension on why things were written certain ways, puns, jokes, stories, and essays was minimal at best and non-existent at worse. It hadn't helped that he took most of what he was reading literally, used to only receiving facts that he would have to compartmentalize and use to his advantage.

His scientific knowledge was about as specific as his mathematic knowledge. He was intimately familiar with chemicals, and what they had done to his body, but not how more of the exotic chemicals could be used. He was an inventor first and foremost, and hadn't delved too deeply into the world of chemicals besides designing his own web fluid. That was an aspect he was eager to share; he'd been proud of getting it to work, even though it was being used for things he didn't appreciate. His sense of biology was his most knowledgeable topic, but for all of the wrong reasons. The only two facets of it he knew was information on his own mutated biology and how human biology functioned so he could kill. He knew the fastest way to stop the heart, the easiest way to kill without spilling blood, parts of the body that could be used to kill someone quickly and painlessly, the best place to target an opponent, weaknesses and how to spot them. His knowledge on human biology was solely synonymous to his knowledge on how to _kill_ people, and that information he kept from sharing, despite knowing that both of them probably knew where that knowledge came from.

He supposed his biology was very different from that of an average persons, thinking on it from a comparative standpoint. Normal people bled crimson, not dark magenta. Normal people didn't have nigh microscopic hairs on their hands and feet that helped cling to walls. Normal people didn't have venom glands above their canines that could excrete neurotoxins capable of giving someone hallucinations and seizures in strong enough doses. Normal people didn't have blood that gave people powers, drove them crazy, and then killed them. Normal people didn't have enhanced healing that could save from basic injuries and scar the worst wounds. Normal people didn't have super-strength. Normal people didn't have highly sensitive senses. Normal people didn't have precognition. Normal people didn't have the urge to spin webs, or crawl into corners of the ceiling. _Normal people didn't have the urge to trap someone in a web and wrap them up and inject them with venom and suck out their insides-_

_No, don't think about it. Don't think about it. You didn't act on it last minute so it's fine, you're fine, you didn't do it. You didn't do it. You. Didn't. Do it. But you could've done it. You wanted to do it. You're resisting half of your instinctual primal urges, Peter. You shouldn't ignore them, Peter. You can't help it because you've never been human, Peter._

Nope. He refused to fall down that rabbit hole again. He repressed that train of thought back in the pit of hell in his mind that it had crawled out of and tried to bury the thought, but he knew it was pointless. It always lurked in the cobwebs of his head. It was as much a part of him as he was, the gross inhuman monster that dwelled beneath carefully trained killer instincts that only avoided tipping the scale into inhumanity thanks to strict conditioning to be an emotionless weapon. He always tried not to dwell too long on the knowledge that the abilities he was born with had also come with the unpleasant side-effect of spider-like tendencies, both the moderately alright and the horrendously terrible.

What were they discussing- education. From what Tony and Pepper seemed to be figuring out, with papers strewn about on a makeshift desk they had brought in, working on their phones while Peter had fallen prey to the ink in his head-space, he was egregiously under-educated. They hadn't bothered to touch history, social or otherwise, which he was thankful for. The mutant was pretty sure what limited knowledge of history he'd been granted was terribly biased in favor of H- _them,_ and inaccurate. They were the same people that'd tried to teach him that the Avengers were terrible for nearly crushing H- _them_ three years ago. Look at where _that_ had gotten him; in their company, after being freed from endless torment. He wasn't willing to trust a word H- _they_ had taught him beyond what he believed to be factual, backed by their lack of lie and the proof he was finding now, in math and science and statistics.

When they'd finished, they seem displeased by the results, and Peter could tell he was terribly uncultured. The mention of school (the word stirred a distant, foggy memory of discussion of prepping for such a place, mention of a 'school year' and 'Kindergarten' brushing the torn fragments of his past life's remembrance) was brought up, though with some hesitance, questioning if it would even be a smart move. He was behind, from what he picked up on through their quiet conversation, whatever that entailed. The discussion ended with a gentle reminder on Pepper's behalf that they didn't even know if Peter would be staying until after the UN trial, which got Tony quiet quickly.

He'd found, lately, that he hated when the room fell silent. It was always filled with stilted awkwardness, of trying to make conversation around the sharp edges of an unfavorable topic. It happened a lot around him, which, Peter supposed, could only make sense. He hadn't exactly been forthcoming with the topics of conversation he disliked and the ones he did, especially since his contribution to conversations was limited by his inability to speak for long periods of time without relying on TTS and his general lack of knowledge of _anything_ to talk about that didn't regard his former life.

Silence had been his companion for so long, his only refuge in the swirling chaos of conditioning and murder, his only solace and safe space that meant he was alone. In that, it had also become his tormentor, plagued with unexpressed thoughts, bursting at the seams with emotions kept cloaked under a mask of indifference. He'd tolerate it before because he had nothing _else_ to think about. It was why he'd taken to counting time; there was nothing else to do besides think about the torture ( _don't think about it_ ), the blood on his hands ( _stop thinking about it, you had no choice, even though you consciously chose to, Peter_ ), his trauma ( _no, stop, don't think about the memories don't think about the loss don't think don't think don't think_ ), and the unvoiced thoughts his disassociated spectator identity of Peter Parker had become in the eight years he'd held the Weaver identity forward.

But now that the mask of Weaver was no longer required for survival ( _it'll never go away, you were Weaver for longer than you were Peter, Peter_ ), silence meant that he could be swallowed by the dark ink in his brain that he'd kept at bay, locked tight behind the mask, because he had no choice to. It meant letting everything he'd kept so diligently held back finally free, and he had no clue how to even go about navigating the mess his mind had become in the wake of his imprisonment. He wanted so badly to just let those aspects of Weaver slide through his fingers until no remnant of H- _they_ remained, to start anew as the innocent child he had once been. The silence reminded him that it was never going to be that way, and he'd begun to despise the silence for mocking him with its jaded cynical realism.

So, to break the silence, he offered an olive branch, read by the flat TTS feature; "'If I can stay, I'd like that. To learn more about what I missed, anyways.'"

And, well, while the smiles they gave him weren't vocal, they washed away the silence, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sips soda* Ah yes, I too love me some good fluff! It's a shame we won't be getting much more dedicatedly until Strange Encounters.
> 
> Next on OWOW: One can run from sleep, but can't run from thoughts.
> 
> Come join the Discord if you want information on more consistent updates and join the community!: https://discord.gg/7jYYC36


	13. Hearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter reminisces and the UN comes a-knockin'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an earlier upload before I take off for a small Christmas vacation! Chapter 14 will come the 26th and Chapter 15 will come the 31st, though!

The Compound was much larger than Peter had originally thought when looking over the schematics and staking it out a few weeks prior. He hadn't gone out to visit the other surrounding buildings since he was limited to the wheelchair and didn't quite feel up to running into strangers, but the main building was plenty enough to explore. In the quiet early hours of the day, he'd taken to silently wheeling around. Sure, it meant he got little sleep, but it also helped avoid the nightmares and the memories he was desperate to leave behind. With FRIDAY guiding him, he hadn't gotten lost; he just made sure he was quiet enough to avoid disturbing anyone that might've been in a room he passed.

The Compound itself seemed to be comprised of three separate groups; SHIELD, the Avengers, and Stark Industries. From what FRIDAY had explained to him, the large building he could see from the main entrance belonged to SHIELD, where they stored their own equipment, ran their own training, and had their offices. Stark Industries, after the Avengers Tower had been sold (he hadn't been personally aware there had even _been_ an Avengers Tower, but it was something FRIDAY had brought up when explaining the layout of the grounds), inhibited the buildings that stood opposite of the SHIELD building. They were smaller in size but more plentiful.

That left the building he was currently in, and the buildings behind it, as the Avengers Headquarters. The main building consisted of five floors, with a large ground floor and four smaller floors. Most of the private offices, meeting rooms, and all of the housing rooms made up the upper floors, with workshops, labs, a gym, a kitchen, and a living room on each. Since the med bay was on the ground floor, bordering the rehabilitation room, Peter had spent most of his time exploring as much of the main floor as he felt up to. It was by far the largest. He'd found the Hangar, a screening room, the Natatorium, the main gym, the shooting range, the foyer, the main bathrooms, and spotted several entrances to the underground network of access tunnels. He wasn't able to go down thanks to his limited movement, but he wasn't quite enthusiastic to be down there, either.

The main conference room, the common area, the lounge, and the main kitchen also happened to be on the ground floor, in the west wing of the building, directly opposite of the med bay, separated by the foyer. It was a tad eerie to wander through the darkened, large building in the early hours of the morning that he'd chosen, but it avoided all of the staff and most of the personnel that kept the building running in the background. He knew from when he spent a few days monitoring the building that the amount of people employed under the three groups that maintained the grounds was large, and that a few people took night shifts. It was easy to skirt around them with FRIDAY's help. Peter was earnestly thankful for the AI's guidance in the unfamiliar building.

His quiet wheeling slowed as he moved away from the east wing and entered the west wing. The wheelchair slowed to a halt as he stared at the large lounge, kitchen, and common area, eyes landing on the signs of new repairs and renovations. He felt his thoughts slip to the holds of his memories, and as the memory played, his head turned to follow movement only he could see in his mind's eye. He could remember the walls he had landed on, the objects he had destroyed in his ambush, the position of the furniture that had to be worked around. Slowly, his gaze tilted to stare at the carpet and marble flooring, trying and failing to spot any remains of blood that had marked the sight of the attack. Nothing. There was hardly any sign that an attack to kill had occurred in the room whatsoever.

 _Look how quickly it was brushed over._ The dark, cynical voice at the back of his head whispered. _As if you were nothing but a minor distraction._

 _Why would they keep the damage around?_ He shot back, slowly wheeling over to the kitchen to get a drink. _That would be impractical._

 _They all recovered so quickly._ The voice continued, unfazed by the logic. _So why can't you?_

 _What?_ His hand stopped dead from where he'd been about to hoist himself up to snag a cup from the upper cabinet. It faltered, shaking slightly.

 _What we did was_ nothing _to them. A wave of the hand, and all the damage got hidden away, forgiven, forgotten. They even want to keep us, despite knowing we were willingly going to kill them not even a month ago._ It crooned back. _All of the damages, gone. All of the ill will, vanished._

 _What point are you trying to make?_ Peter shot back, edging on annoyance.

 _Why is it so easy for them to move on... and so difficult for you?_ It asked, before adding, _You're getting held up on the thought that you_ could _have killed them. You were feeling guilty that you had helped contribute in the destruction of a room in the building you're now seeking refuge in. You needed the validation that you could fix one of the wrong things you had done with_ them. _But... in coming here, there's nothing to fix. It's already done for you. They already let go. So why are you still clinging onto the guilt?_

Peter's hand slowly dropped back into his lap, a fine tremor coursing down his skin. _I..._ He struggled to think of the words, letting his gaze drift back to the room. _It... it's_ hard _to let it go._ His foot dropped from the resting spot on the wheelchair to touch the cold floor. _I could've killed them. I_ tried _to kill them. I hadn't really wanted to, but my body still... I still... and they were hurt... and some of their stuff was ruined..._

 _You're afraid to let go, aren't you?_ The voice whispered.

Peter shook his head, biting his lip. _No, no! I-it's not that. It's_ not. _I-I'm glad they genuinely seem to forgive me for that. I... I can let go of the guilt! I... I..._ He frowned, feeling cold despite there being no change of temperature. He could still remember the flash of metal, the lines of blood, the exchanged blows, the destroyed furnishings. Even if the room no longer reflected it, his mind did with near perfect clarity. With the memory came the feelings. The frustration he had felt at H- _them_ for making him take on such an impossible task. The hint of pride for managing to override FRIDAY and take them by surprise. The rush of adrenaline that always came from fighting an opponent that could fight him on even ground. And, underneath it all... _It's because I_ wanted _to take them down._

The voice seemed to agree with him. _Deep down, you knew how_ proud _they would be if you succeeded. How fantastical it would be, to be the one lauded for taking down Earth's most famous and powerful enhanced. You_ craved _their validation for your victory, desired to reach it without needing the back-up plan. The world would lose its defenders, but you would gain the affection you had spent years seeking from your captors, even if it was just making them happy that you had succeeded._ It seemed to get closer as it sneered, _And now you're afraid to let go of that thought, of that feeling, because you think it needs punishment. Because you tried to do something terrible for a selfish and terrible reason and can't stand the thought of there being no repercussions, because there's always been repercussions._

A numbness clung to his limbs as he stared blankly at the room, a tight feeling building in his chest that made it difficult to breathe. He hadn't been able to place the exact reason for the guilt that had started creeping into his veins since his formal freedom from captivity before. Acting in the moment and thinking on it later had become the coping habit during his ten and a half year sentence, and he'd found that after missions he would get hung up on _something_ that had bothered him about it. He had never been able to place what it was until a while afterwards. Most of the time, it was usually how he could've done better; how he could've avoided an unnecessary casualty, or a different route he could've taken that would've been more efficient. Sometimes, it was information he had heard or picked up about the outside world; a business deal, or the person's job, or their family. And, in the worst moments, it fixated on the blood on his hands, on the crimes tied to his name, and the deaths. The deaths were always the freshest in his mind.

He tried not to feel on missions. He'd tried giving it up long ago, in the fear it would give him away, backed further by the one time it nearly _had._ But he couldn't escape his own flesh, and his thoughts couldn't escape the hellish landscape that his brain had become. He could try all he wanted, but Peter had never been able to avoid the emotional backlash after a hit. Guilt would choke at his lungs and claw at his eyes, and it bled into his heart, twisted at his mind.

Peter clenched his eyes shut, his hand forming a tight, white-knuckled fist. Even though the damage was gone, he knew he'd never forget it. He knew he'd never stop feeling bad for what could have been, had fortune been less benevolent. While his new handlers had forgiven his discretion, the assassin knew that he would always feel guilty for wanting to have accomplished the deed.

Drink forgotten, he wheeled out of the west wing, before a frown crossed his face. Had he-? His brow furrowed as his train of thought finally latched onto the realization that he'd subconsciously thought of the Avengers as his new handlers. They _weren't_ his superiors, they _didn't_ want his complete and total obedience, they _didn't_ want to use him as a tool, they _weren't_ going to hurt him for being like this. They were just the people watching over him, providing him shelter, and taking care of his injuries.

 _Just like your handlers did._ His mind oh so helpfully jibed.

He needed to sleep.

* * *

Peter lifted his head, not quite pondering what he'd just heard. "We're... what?"

"Designing your new prosthetics." Tony reiterated, moving around the lab, toting around a toolbox and chunks of metal. He placed both on a table, before frowning. The billionaire rustled through several cabinets before finding the wires he wanted. Satisfied, he brought them back to the table, letting the simple wires join the clutter of metal and technology that covered the work station.

Peter wheeled closer to the work station, frowning as the mountain of objects seemed to grow ever higher thanks to the philanthropist. "Why do we need all of..." he gestured to the pile, before extending his arm out to the side. "...this? It seems rather unnecessary."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Oh, c'mon, spiderling, you're getting to design your own arm and foot! You can add a lot to those bad boys! Like a gun, or an MP3!"

A conflicted, confused look crossed the mutant's features at that, before saying quietly, "Those are two vastly different objects, Mr. Stark."

"So what? You never know what you need." He said in way of reply, finally satisfied with what they had available. He pointed a screwdriver at Peter. "By the way, kid, your voice is already sounding better. You're a bit quiet, but at least you're able to get through your sentences easier! What's it been, thirteen days since you started using your voice again?"

The mutant clicked his tongue quietly. "It's been..." he paused to clear his throat as his voice started fizzing out on him. When it made no sign of returning, he simply fished his phone out and finished with the TTS, "'...difficult getting it to stay long. At least the itchiness takes longer to arrive the more I speak.'"

"You're warming up your vocal chords again. It'll take time. Still, it's doing well for being unused for years." The man flashed him a vibrant grin. "That's something to be proud of, kid."

It was getting too mushy for Peter's comfort, so he directed the conversation back to the discordant table. "'So why do you want my help with the prosthetics?'"

Tony frowned. "Why _wouldn't_ I want your help? Shouldn't your input be necessary? They're going to be _your_ limbs, after all."

Peter's nose scrunched, and he typed the words before he could really process what he was having the TTS say. "'Doctor Bloom, I know nothing about prosthetics. Why are you having me design them?'" When it was read aloud, though, he finally caught on to what he'd just written and had spoken for him. His eyes widened slightly, and his blood ran cold.

Tony paused, turning to look at the kid that now seemed frozen in place. The name seemed familiar, and then it clicked; someone by that same name had been the one listed under the maintenance logs for any repairs and upgrades the kid had needed in the past. He also was the one who ran the tests, from what he could recall of the records. The kid's words sank into his skull, and a realization came to fruition, backed by the remembrance of what the kid had said about his knowledge. Had the kid been forced to help make his own limbs to replace the ones HYDRA had taken from him, all while the doctor behind it picked at his brain to see what needed to be kept around and what needed to go? The thought made him sick, thinking of Peter as a child messing with dangerous tools and technology while adults schemed what parts of his mind were threats to their operation.

The silence was charged with unspoken emotion on both fronts, and Peter was despising it. It was uncomfortable ( _you made it uncomfortable, Peter, great job_ ), and the mutant wanted to break the tension that had come over them. He didn't mind helping make his own prosthetics, really. Inventing was one of the few things he could hold dear to his chest; it just happened to be that this particular activity was soured in his mind. With a grunt, he attempted to stand so he could better reach the counter that was higher than his seated wheelchair position, wanting to move past the stilted awkwardness as swiftly as possible.

Tony caught him before he could biff it, snapping out of his stupor when he noticed the boy stand to move. He acted as a support for the mutant while he crawled onto an empty part of the work station with all the grace of a cat, despite missing a foot and hand for controlled movement. It seemed Peter still wanted to participate, despite his earlier reservations. Tony made a note to _ask_ Peter before assuming he would want to help with any future projects.

"FRIDAY, let's get some music playing." FRIDAY turned on AC/DC at a much lower volume than normal, and Tony clapped his hands gently, so as to not startle Peter. "Okay, spider-boy. Let's see what we can turn this hunk of vibranium into."

* * *

They had finished Rhodey's leg braces (Peter hadn't realized the man was paralyzed from the waist down, and made a note to ask him why later should it ever come up in conversation) and Bucky's prosthetic arm, and had gotten two thirds of the way through Peter's prosthetic foot when the notice came. They'd been working on the metal limbs pretty consistently for two days, broken by visits from passing workers and Avengers. Bucky had stopped by to offer thoughts on what he wanted from his latest arm; no major changes, just slight slimming to make it more aerodynamic. Since Tony already had the schemes for Bucky's arm saved in the Compound database, making the parts and placing them together had been easy. It had taken eight hours from start to finish to give the former Winter Soldier a new arm.

It was taking much longer to get Peter's done, largely due to the fact that they had to start from scratch. The old prosthetics were no longer around to use as reference (which, Tony noted, Peter had seem relieved to be the case), so measurements had to be made using his flesh foot and flesh arm as the foundation for the replacements. Tony was also quickly finding that Peter's prosthetics had been more advanced than Bucky's; they had been built to accommodate his spider-like abilities. When Tony had asked how it had worked, Peter had been eager to elaborate on the technology behind the suction he had helped design into the sole and palm to give the metal limbs the same gripping capabilities his flesh hand and foot possessed ("'There were really small suction cups embedded in the palm and fingers of the arm, and the sole and toes of the foot. The strength of them was adjusted over time, through five different versions. The last one I had was the sixth. They had to be adjusted to account for my weight, and the stickiness had to be adjusted so I didn't tear off a chunk of whatever I gripped. It took a while to get the hang of it, but I balanced it somewhat with my natural abilities. It could've been better I suppose, but it worked for what it was.'" He'd had the TTS dictate). He had also taken off the small metal band he wore around his wrist and had explained the mechanics of the web-shooter, and how he'd implemented that into the prosthetic arm. Tony had never seen him enthusiastic, so it threw him for a loop when the kid babbled about the inner workings of the technology he had helped design, narrated both by the droning TTS voice (he made a mental note to add FRIDAY or an AI to Peter's phone so the TTS could actually be anything but monotone) and his broken, quiet English.

They were soldering the heel into the foot that would allow it to be screwed on and off when the music cut off. FRIDAY came on before Tony could ask what came up. "Sorry for the interruption, boss. It's Fury. He's in the common room with the others and asked for your presences."

Tony frowned, glancing at Peter, who wore a similar worried expression. Turning back to the ceiling, he asked, "Did Fury say why we're needed?"

"He said the UN had held off long enough and were now demanding they meet. They want to give Mr. Parker a hearing."

Tony cursed under his breath. "Thank you, FRI. We'll be right over."

A tight ball knotted in Peter's chest, and he quietly said, "They don't sound happy."

Admittedly, Tony had nearly forgotten the UN wanted to do a hearing in the first place. Between healing, getting to know Peter, and helping get gear back in order, it had all but slipped his mind that the world's largest intergovernmental organization wanted to know what argument they could supply to keep Peter from being convicted of the crimes HYDRA had him do. A wave of anxiety nearly caused his knees to crumble at the realization that the hearing could go so, _so_ wrong. It would take all of the sweet-talking and ass-kissing they could muster to get the UN to give leniency in the face of a mass murderer. One misstep and the kid would be taken away. Tony didn't want that at all.

The two made their way out of the lab and into the common room, where the others were already gathered. None of them really seemed ready for the occasion, more than likely having been ripped from their casual activities for the pressing issue. Nick Fury was the only one dressed formally, and that was just simply how he _always_ looked. He nodded in their direction when they joined them, with Tony quietly panicking and contradicting feelings of remorse and nervousness budding in Peter's chest.

"The UN refused to hold off longer. They want to conduct the hearing tomorrow at 10 AM. They blocked out the entire day for this hearing," Nick stated, before quietly adding, "...Though it's less a _hearing_ and more an informal trial. Faulers said they were pretty upset with the news they were given." His one-eyed gaze fixed on Peter. "You better hope fortune favors us, Mr. Parker. We will do our best to give a fair argument back, but they, ultimately, decide your future."

A bitter feeling began to grow in Peter's chest, constricting his lungs. Was his fate being pawned off to total strangers _again?_ Hadn't he already had his future stripped away enough? The resentment that began to bud behind his eyes grew louder, enhanced by the repressed anger towards his situation that the dark ink in his head loved to prey on. The impulse to take that frustration out and let it run wild sang cacophonously at the back of his thoughts, but it was vastly outweighed by the immense weight of the guilt that he had harbored in his form for ten and a half years. That part was quieter than the bitterness and the anger, but it was also more rational, more effective.

 _Why are you upset about being convicted of our crimes?_ The voice questioned curiously. _If you're sentenced, we'll pay for the torment we've caused. Would that not get rid of the guilt smothering your every thought?_

 _But if I'm convicted, I'll be taken away from the Avengers. I won't get a chance to start anew, the thing that Carmen and Omen both_ died _for. Wouldn't they want me to try to be normal?_ Peter rationalized back.

 _Were you ever normal in the first place?_ The voice chided, unimpressed. _We_ _consciously chose to commit those crimes and do those murders. You chose to escape the true defense of being completely brainwashed in favor of holding a selfish, childish desire to retain your old identity. I may have done it because_ they _wanted us to, but we still willingly carried it out. They don't know that._ None _of them know you were consciously aware of all of those murders._ It pressed further into his mind, a cold, twisting feeling. _Face it, Peter. You will never be able to forget what we did. Evading consequence only delays the inevitable. It'll make the guilt worse._ It filled his head, the only thing he could focus on; cold, inky murkiness that clogged his senses and suffocated any other thought he might have. _Y͘ou ͠d͜on̡'̸t̛ ̴wa̧nt the͘ g̀u̵ilt t͝o g̸et ͢ẁorse,̧ do̶ ̷ỳoų?͞_

The guilt threatened to swallow him whole, to erase his rationality, to let his fortitude cave in to the wave of torment that clouded his muddled, broken head space. He'd convinced himself that the only way to relieve his guilt was to get punished for the misdeeds he'd done. He lost sight of the logic, and the optimism, replaced instead by the hurricane of grief and misery.

 _No._ He'd tuned out the real world at this point, but if he were paying more attention, he would've realized the conversation had already ended, and that he was one of the last people left in the room. He paid no mind to that, completely trapped in the ink. _I need to atone for the pain we caused._

_T̷͜h̸e̛͟͠ņ ͟y̶̡̛o͞͡ú͝ ̧͜kno̷͏́w ̴͜ẃ̛h̕͝a̕̕͡t̕͡ ҉̢ỳ̀͞o͘͠u̡ ̨́n̕ȩ͡ę̛d̴̀ ̵͡͞t͝o̷͘ ̷d̶o̡.̸̨_

He did. He would wheel into the building, become the center of attention for nearly 150 different countries he'd upset. He knew somewhere in the back of his thoughts that the Avengers wouldn't be pleased with what he wanted to do, and a small part of him reasoned that he would just get hurt worse. That thought was quickly shut down. He would be before hundreds of powerful people. He would muster his thoughts, he would gather his courage, and he would force his broken vocal chords to cooperate.

And he would confess guilty to every single crime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guilt sucks, don't it?
> 
> Next time on OWOW: The verdict is given.
> 
> Join the Discord for updates, info, and to chat! :D https://discord.gg/7jYYC36


	14. Verdict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter faces the UN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm not exactly the most well-informed for how hearings of this nature would genuinely be conducted. However, I came to the realization that the circumstance and the change in what the world is would warrant there to be some probable unrealistic proceedings. Hopefully it's done well enough to suffice! :D
> 
> Also, as a note: I know in real life that there's 193 countries in the UN (with 195 recognized), but the Marvel universe has countries that don't exist in real life but do exist in the Marvel universe, and also doesn't have countries that exist in real life. The amount seems to differ between the comics and the MCU, but since this is based off of the MCU, I'm going with the amount of countries that are listed to exist in the MCU, which is 144. If it is wrong it's an easy enough fix. :)

Anxiety was buzzing strongly through Peter's veins as he wheeled into the foyer, where they would be gathering to head to the UN's Headquarters. It was an hour and a half long drive to the building, and since they were needed at ten, here he was, ready two and a half hours before the meeting that would determine his future would take place. Despite the appointment being at ten, and the drive being an hour and a half, they needed to leave a bit earlier to deal with traffic. Still, he could tell he was early; he was one of the first in the room.

The only other occupants in the room at the moment were Sam, Steve, and Bucky, since they'd already been up for their early-morning jog. They wore formal suits and ties, which happened to be the dress code from what Peter had been told. His hand idly reached to the tie around his neck and tugged at the knot, unimpressed by the formal attire but knowing it certainly wasn't the _most_ uncomfortable thing he'd ever worn. Tony had helped, before vanishing, saying something about needing another cup of coffee to add to the two he'd already had. Noting the way the man's hand had shaken, Peter supposed the billionaire was as nervous as he was about what the UN would say.

Though, he supposed his worry was for an entirely different thing. If the former asset had to guess, they were worried about trying to keep him and presenting a justified argument in front of 144 different countries. For Peter, his worry stemmed from the resolution he'd come to the night before. He was, admittedly, having second thoughts to confessing. Admitting it would mean he could never take it back, and could never hide that part of himself again to anyone in the room. He'd held himself so tightly inside the vault of his mind for so many years that letting something so personal out of the cage was nearly enough to make him lose his breath. However, while his second-guessing was strong, the feeling of remorse was stronger. Despite his reservations, Peter _knew_ he would never be capable of ignoring the guilt forever. This was his opportunity to let justice be _dealt,_ even if it meant destroying what the Avengers were going to fight for, even if it meant throwing himself to the wolves.

Peter sat quietly off to the side, lost in his thoughts, hand idly adjusting the neatly folded and wrapped free sleeve on his right side that had been carefully tucked around the screw, so the empty piece of garment wouldn't trail annoyingly along his side. His senses dulled, and he watched mutely as the attending people slowly trickled into the foyer, all dressed formally. Wanda and Vision had wandered in at some point, and met up with Sam, Bucky, and Steve. Tony and Pepper were next, talking quietly. Rhodey ambled quietly into the room, his leg braces whirring softly. Natasha slunk in after Bruce, and Scott entered, talking on the phone with someone. He ended the discussion before pocketing the phone. T'Challa had already went on ahead, seeing as he was the Wakandan ambassador in the UN.

Time seemed to blur for the mutant as Nick Fury entered the building, with Faulers at his side. Both scanned the room, meeting each of their gazes (Peter averted his gaze from Faulers's, the twisting feeling in his gut growing stronger after seeing the man for the first time outside of _their_ freedom), before everyone moved outside. They piled into three vehicles, with Peter getting some support in limping into the third vehicle while the wheelchair was settled into the back. Then they drove towards the building that would be the place his fate was determined.

He felt like fidgeting, and couldn't help the slight nervous tick that sprung itself up again. He found his hand rubbing idly at his right hip, since there was no arm there to rub and he'd already fiddled with the folded sleeve. His gaze was firmly affixed to the outside world, and Peter found his thoughts being broken by curiosity as they entered the city. Likewise with the Compound, he hadn't had the best time sightseeing and exploring New York priorly. He found himself wondering if he could spend a day or two out in the streets of the Big Apple, seeing what the world had to offer.

 _Don't count on it._ The voice hissed quietly. _You're confessing; they're more than likely going to punish us. We'd be lucky to see the light of day again after everything_ we _did._

The idle thought of hope quickly diminished, and his face fell to neutral indifference again, once more dragged back to the inky depths of his mind. His gaze blankly raked over the passing landscape as they delved further into the city, approaching the UN Headquarters. The closer they got, the more a weariness settled into his bones, making his body feel like lead. A sudden exhaustion clung to his frame, and his hand stopped fidgeting, stilling and sitting in his lap. A quiet buzzing had grown louder from the back of his head, a sense of danger from his sixth sense that he hadn't felt in a few days. The return of the sensation had him sitting straighter, suddenly more alert, though he had no clue why it had suddenly spiked up. There shouldn't have been danger, from what his fatigued mind could comprehend.

 _Is the UN not the danger?_ The voice remarked softly. _They have the option to make or break our future. They're the ones deciding whether we receive the repercussions of our murders, or whether our situation warrants another chance to make it better._

 _What are the chances of it being favorable?_ Peter idly wondered. _144 people will be deciding my fate. Those odds are too unreliable to expect unanimous agreement. Plus... in looking at what countries the UN has, we've been to all of them and taken at least_ a _life. Murder isn't exactly legal in_ any _country_ , _especially on such a scale._ His head ended up lightly pressed to the window as the UN Headquarters entered view. The sinking feeling in his stomach grew stronger. _Maybe with my confession, they'll lighten up on the punishment. You think we could get a mercifully quick death sentence?_

 _Unlikely._ The voice chimed. _Especially i_ _f they figured out death is something you'd welcome with open arms. We're not likely to be revived again. It would be the_ easy _way out for the blood on our hands._

Peter swallowed thickly as they came upon the building. _There's no way they_ wouldn't _give me a death sentence with the amount of kills that are tied to my name... right? They... they wouldn't_ _keep me_ alive _and imprisoned if they convicted me of the crimes. Then they'd be just like H-_ them. _Wouldn't they?_

 _Ross was the former United States ambassador, was he not?_ The voice brought up as the car pulled to a halt in a parking space. _He was the one who orchestrated the entire thing. Who's to say he didn't have friends in the UN that knew?_ They _were able to stay hidden for years. I doubt all of them are gone. If any of them are still lurking in the UN, they_ would _want to take you back with them._

Peter was helped out of the car as the wheelchair was placed down, and he settled into the device. They had met up with the others, and they were all talking, but he couldn't focus on what was being said through his growing paranoia. _I-I wouldn't allow myself to be used again. I... I had no choice before-hand. I had no one. I... I have the Avengers this time. They... they want to keep me, right? They'll... they'd protect me!_

 _Aren't you going to confess for us?_ The voice shot back flippantly. _You're going to be directly opposing their argument. Will they even_ want _to back you up after such an ungrateful maneuver?_

Peter's eyes narrowed slightly as he moved the wheelchair forward. _Weren't_ you _the one that convinced me to spill my guts?_

 _We both know the guilt would've eaten you alive._ The voice dismissed. _Besides, the only one you have to blame is_ yourself. _I'm_ your _coping mechanism. I'm not_ real. _I was just a mask you wore to protect yourself. I still want to protect you. But I_ can't _oppose what you want. I'm part of_ you _, after all. You're the one in control now._

They were now approaching the doors to the room they would be adjourning in. Peter's frame was trembling slightly, and his flesh was wrapped in goosebumps. Despite this, his mind fixated on the end of his mental discussion. _Great talk, as always, Weaver,_ his mind snarked.

_You're welcome, Peter._

* * *

The courtroom was large, and filled to the brim with people. They were the last to arrive. It seemed like the room wasn't meant to hold so many people, but they were making do, with chairs haphazardly set up around the room to accommodate the ambassadors. There was a long podium on an elevated stage that looked like it could hold three judges. A chair had been set out for him, but it was placed to the side so his wheelchair could go into the spot, instead. His spot felt rather isolated in the center of the room, purposefully designed to have him be the epicenter of everyone's attention. Even though the Avengers were only a few feet behind him, it did little to comfort him when he could see and feel the eyes of the other 141 people in the room.

From what Peter could pick up from the murmurs, this was an abnormal hearing, even for the UN's standards. He supposed he could've felt flattered that they were bending their own formalities just for him, but instead it reminded the former asset that they had all _wanted_ to be there to decide his fate and changed the rules to be present in the hearing of a mass murderer. It made his skin crawl, and he couldn't help the shivers that kept running down his flesh from all the gazes fixated on his form. He nervously tucked himself further into the crook the wheelchair provided in a futile attempt to shrink away from the judging stares.

"Is that him?" A woman whispered off to the side in a thick accent. "I wasn't expecting a kid."

"That's him, all right." A man responded in a more controlled accent. He could feel the man's gaze crawl along his skin. "Can't believe Thaddeus used a child. How despicable."

"So _this_ is the killer?" A voice huffed disdainfully off to the other side. "Are we sure we were given the right information? There's no way he could've done it. Look at him, he's in a wheelchair."

"Can't believe _this_ is the infamous Weaver." Another voice chimed. "The kid doesn't even look like he could hurt a fly, let alone kill _that_ many people."

"Peter Parker, was it?" Came the murmur. "Poor kid, losing his family and then being forced to murder."

"Don't be fooled." The reply was bitter. "A murderer is a murderer. Look at him; if he fooled HYDRA with their act, who's to say he _doesn't_ enjoy killing and is just trying to use his age against us?"

"Weaver, huh? They must be crazy." "Is _this_ who was really responsible for the murder of my friend? I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen the evidence." "Are we really going to put a minor through the legal system?" "Murder is still murder, regardless of the age."

Peter desperately wished his enhanced hearing would stop, sometimes. The words were catching and swirling inside of his head, adding to the suffocating ink. The more whispers he heard from the gathered people, the more the noise added to the static and piled onto the guilt.

"The kid was probably forced to." _Well, sort of._ "The only one left from them that we know of is him. One of our own betrayed us. I say we let him be the scapegoat." _Was he_ _always going to be thought of as one of them?_ "Who knows what danger he could be to society now that he's uncontrolled?" _They_ _said that like he's some sort of monster._ "Once a killer, always a killer." _It wasn't his fault these instincts were there._ "Would he even be able to fit into human society? He was a mutant raised to kill. Maybe this entire thing is pointless." _It wasn't his fault he was born with these powers. He didn't ask for them. He hadn't wanted them. He never ever wished to have these urges._

 _Maybe they're right._ Weaver hummed at the back of his thoughts, loud through the static. _They're making you sad, though. I don't like that._

 _I don't need your protection right now, Weaver._ Peter shot back. _I can... I can handle their comments. Please, let me handle it._

The internal discussion was interrupted by the three judges filing into the room. Everyone stood, and noting this, Peter tried to, as well. What he ended up having to settle with was a somewhat awkward crouch, leg bent straight out while his other, footless leg propped against the other side of the wheelchair's legs. His arm held his weight upright, and he used some of his sticking to keep himself as straight as he could with his limited resources. Blinking, he was surprised to find that T'Challa was designated as one of the judges. He didn't recognize the other two, but part of his worry ebbed away, seeing one of them being in an influencing seat.

They reached the seats at the podiums, and the one in the middle, a balding elderly man, stepped forward. Making sure the microphone worked, he grumbled into it, "You may sit," in a thick Russian accent. Slowly, everyone sat, and Peter released his sticking, trying and barely managing to slip back into his seat with _some_ grace.

The woman off to the left side seemed to be holding a lot of files that she spread to the other judges. She then leaned closer to her own microphone and stated, "The United Nations is convening today to address a matter of personal interest to the governments present. As such, the current hearing is unconventional to normal standards. It is still being recorded for future record, however, just as other hearings." She adjusted the folders in front of her. "Three nations were chosen to be the final word on the verdict. Mr. T'Challa of Wakanda, Mr. Glazkov of Russia, and myself, Ms. Collins, representing the United States as the chosen ambassador in the wake of Thaddeus Ross's passing."

With the formalities put to the side, it seemed it was time to get straight to the point. Mr. Glazkov adjusted his glasses before murmuring, "We are here today for the hearing of one Mr. Peter Benjamin Parker." He opened one of the folders on his part of the podium, before continuing, "Who stands accused of executing 231 assassination missions for the former terrorist association known as HYDRA. Along with several recorded instances of arson and robbery, said person is responsible, by record and evidence, for 583 murders, with an additional 28 after leaving HYDRA's services, and assisted in the deaths of 35 individuals, including Ambassador Thaddeus Ross, in Siberia two weeks ago."

Peter could feel the tension in the air increase with that being spoken as the assembled UN members were reminded of that, and he could hear the shock from the assembled Avengers behind him. He internally winced. He supposed the files they had originally been given either hadn't included the total count, or they had just assumed it to be a lesser amount. The mutant himself wasn't shocked by the revelation; it was all he could do to _not_ think about the 7,746 deaths tied to his name. Even though two thirds of them had done terrible things and had criminal records, the guilt still ate at him for being the one to do them in.

T'Challa adjusted the files he had as well, before speaking up, "However, the situation is complicated." He opened one of the folders, before adding, "As given to us by Agent James Faulers of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, there is also indisputable proof that Mr. Peter Benjamin Parker was kidnapped, tortured, and forced into committing each crime attached to his name and the name of the alias HYDRA designated him, Weaver." The man adjusted his microphone before finishing, "Therefore, the presented issue is as follows: Mr. Peter Parker was a victim of circumstance that committed a substantial and indisputable amount of crimes spread over the course of seven and a half years in all 144 recognized countries of the United Nations. Since this is a hearing, all parties present may make a case as to whether Mr. Peter Benjamin Parker should be convicted of the crimes attached to his alias or whether the circumstance warrants leniency."

"The members present may now make their case on what the fate of Mr. Peter Parker may be." Ms. Collins concluded.

"With all due respect, is this debate inherently necessary?" A British man stood, calmly adjusting his tie. "The presented issue shares many marked similarities to the resolved case of Mr. James Buchanan Barnes, which was concluded two months ago. Would it not be in the best interest of the United Nations to present Mr. Peter Benjamin Parker the same verdict?"

The Afghanistan representative stood up, a distrusting scowl on his features. "84 people of my country, 53 of which were men, 30 of which were women, and one of which was a child, were targeted and slaughtered by Ross's agenda." His gaze fixed on Peter, a distrusting look in his eyes. "And from what the records stated, Mr. Parker was raised under that agenda. I cannot trust that Mr. Parker will leave behind the violence he was conditioned to follow. It is hard for one to break free of the way they were nurtured. I am not willing to risk it. In honor of the unfortunate victims, I propose Mr. Parker be brought to justice."

The conversation evolved from there, and with it, the gathered people became more agitated. The argument volleyed on both sides, ranging from the dismissive ("We have rehabilitated murderers before, and Mr. Barnes is the best present evidence that such a situation is recoverable. He is a minor; he should be granted the chance to integrate into society. Is this not enough to warrant the self-defense law?"), to the neutral ("The lives of the citizens in my country that were lost to his hands were unfortunate, but the situation itself is also unfavorable. If Mr. Parker wishes to be better then the chance should be granted; otherwise, he stands as a safety risk."), to the vengeful ("I don't care what the circumstance was, Mr. Parker still committed the crime. There has to be a line drawn between self-defense and purposeful instigation. He may have went along with it because HYDRA made him, but that implies that he willingly went through with all of the murders. He was with them for ten and a half years, and active for seven and a half. There is a very large chance that he became numb to the killing, which means he is likely to be prone to violence. The risk factor is too great for a person of his abilities.").

In likewise fashion, however, it was also bordered by the Avengers adding their two-cents to the discussion; namely what they had learned of Peter and his personality through the limited time they spent with the assassin. The most adamant voice was Tony, seeing as he had spent the most time with the asset, and whenever an argument would arise that questioned his morality, Tony would step in ("Yes, the kid was responsible for all of that. But I've spent time alone with Peter, and I can say without hesitation that I never felt in any danger around him, even though we've been in positions where he could have done something if he genuinely desired to. He's a good kid deep down. He just needs to be given a chance to prove it."), followed closely by Natasha. Wanda was quieter in her support, but was also one of the few who could get the room to listen to what she was stating. Given her abilities, it was well-known and respected that she was a trust-worthy source for discerning the intentions and thoughts of a person.

As the conversation had unfolded, the cold feeling that he had felt earlier had settled on him like a weighted blanket, threatening to drag him down into the dark depths of his mind. He was conflicted as the arguments were presented, finding merit in the ones defending him and agreeing with the ones against him. The part of him that had longed for freedom and the life he had once had had lifted its head and was aching for everything HYDRA to just be let go and sent away. That part of him yearned for a second chance, clung desperately to the thought that, if the opportunity presented itself, he could leave the past fourteen years behind and start anew.

That side was greatly contested by the part of him that had accepted his fate long ago, that had realized with total finality that he would never be free of the torment. That part of him refused to let go of the injustice that had been dealt to him for so many years. It had already acknowledged that there was nothing left to fix, that he was too broken, and that there was no use in trying. That voice wanted him to just confess his willing commitment to the assassinations and accept whatever punishment came for taking so many lives.

But a third thought lingered in the background, veiled by the two more prominent thoughts. It was one filled with unchecked anger and resentment that had been boiling underneath the surface for years, and was once again rearing its head in light of the circumstances. It was one that was tired of letting others choose his fate, one that had long since been fed up with the lack of freedom. It was born of instincts, repressed emotions, and the dangerous impulses that had been laced into his mind's wiring. It longed to let loose, to lash out, to take out the anger at the universe for his deplorable luck at anyone and everyone around. And as the debate on his fate ensued, the ink had grown, plagued by the realization that this situation was too similar to the one he'd been stuck in for the last ten and a half years for his comfort.

The debate had gone on long enough. "Excuse me." Peter tried, but it came out the same broken quiet it had been previously.

He frowned, shifting in the wheelchair, and decided to try it again, straining to make his voice louder. "Excuse me."

Still, it wasn't very loud, and it broke easily. He was now beginning to really _hate_ not being able to speak much louder. With a huff of curbed frustration, he scanned his person to see if he had anything that could help garner their attention. He would've used his phone had he had it on his person, but he'd forgotten it in the car. He debated standing, but wasn't in the mood to fall flat on his face. His gaze drifted down to the folded pant leg of his left leg, and decided that would have to do. He leaned forward to unfold and roll the cloth away from the metal plate and screw embedded at the bottom of his left leg, drawing some attention from the quieter watchers. Once it was unearthed, he grit his teeth, knowing it would hurt. He then angled his leg and jabbed it down against the hard floor repeatedly, a metal ringing coming from the plate.

A wave of pain traveled down his leg as the metal plating shook, but he kept hitting it against the ground until he heard the conversation die down. Once it had, he winced as he drew the leg back in, setting it tentatively back down where it was. He now had the undivided attention of the room, the arguments broken and interrupted by the loud banging. Seeing that he had their attention, the anger slipped through his fingers, replaced more prominently by his nervousness. Now that he had their attention, though, it couldn't be taken back. He took a breath.

"I did it," He huffed, the feeling of guilt overwhelming his thoughts. "I did _all_ of it." He didn't care that his voice was quiet, or that it was breaking; he just did his best to project it. "Every single death was willingly executed by _me_."

Peter's throat was beginning to hurt from his voice being raised, but he didn't care. It hurt more to keep it pent up. "I was conscious for _all_ of them. I _remember_ them all." His breathing was starting to pick up pace, and he could feel some of his frustrations bubble through his words. "To save my skin, _I killed them._ " The dark storm of his thoughts became a hurricane in his head, swirling out all his pent-up misery and guilt. His hand clenched his pants tightly, and he could feel a flush creep up his neck. "I-I didn't _have_ to do it willingly. But I _did._ And I _can't get it out of my head._ "

His hand now gripped the side of his head, and he tuned out the rest of the room, consumed by his thoughts. "Their blood is on _my hands_ and I _can't get rid of the stain._ They didn't deserve to die, at least not to _me._ But _they did_ and _it never got punished._ I-I did a terrible thing and _nothing_ happened. _Their lives were worthless_ to them." He was downright hyperventilating at that point, his senses muffled and narrowing in, on the verge of tears. "They _died_ for _nothing._ I-It can't be taken back. None of them _deserved_ it. _I_ don't deserve mercy." His head lifted shakily, and he choked out in closing, voice barely holding on, " _They_ didn't get a second chance, so neither should _I._ I plead _guilty._ To every single crime."

He swallowed thickly, and lost his voice, so he closed his mouth and sat back. He didn't know when he'd leaned forward. His body was overrun by visible tremors, and his teeth chattered violently. The cold feeling was back and all-encompassing, sucking at his breath, dulling his thoughts. Despite the chill, he could feel his hand was clammy, and he barely resisted the urge to tug at the tie around his neck that had begun to feel like it would choke him. The guilt was all he could think about, his mind full to bursting with memories of blood and tears, etched into the brain tissue like hieroglyphs. Yet, despite feeling like he was drowning underneath the weight of it all, a small mercy bloomed at the back of his thoughts that he clung onto like a life raft in the stormy sea of ink; relief that he had confessed, and with it, the notion that maybe, just maybe, he would finally get the just desserts that had come for his oppressors, and be doled out the justice that was warranted for the loss of 7,746 souls.

It was why he was caught off-guard when he was asked, "Were you not in the same situation, Mr. Parker?"

 _What?_ He raised his head, eyes fixing on Ms. Collins. His throat hurt like hell and he didn't think he could muster the strength to force his raw throat to choke out the words, but his confusion was evident; brow furrowed, shoulders tense, a deep frown on his face. What had she meant by the question?

Noting his confusion, Ms. Collins continued, "The panel is very aware of your involvement, Mr. Parker. But as you stated yourself, you did it to save yourself," she stared at one of the open folders. "It has been well-noted that you were forced into the situation. The fact that you retained your identity throughout the ordeal is, frankly, impressive, Mr. Parker." She closed the folder, before looking Peter directly in the eyes. "Mr. Parker, we have the evidence that you were kidnapped, tortured, and forced to commit the crimes to preserve yourself. Would that not place you in the same situation as the deceased as an unwilling victim?"

Peter's mouth felt dry. This... wasn't what he was expecting. He was expecting that his confession would be followed by the conclusion of the hearing. He was expecting that he would be convicted and sentenced. He was expecting that he would never leave the room a free man. Why was she entertaining that notion? He couldn't grasp why that train of thought was relevant. _He killed them._ What situation he was in shouldn't have mattered; they were dead and he was the one who killed them. So why? Why was it being brought up?

Mr. Glazkov adjusted his glasses. "There is a system in place for people who were in high-risk situations called the self-defense law, which is recognized by the United Nations. The law requires the response to match the level of the threat in question. In other words, a person can only employ as much force as required to remove the threat. In the situation where the threat involves deadly force, the person defending themselves is allowed, under that law, to use deadly force to counteract the threat." He straightened his folders. "This point was brought up and re-iterated during the proceedings, in the event that you missed it, Mr. Parker." His gaze fixed the teenager with an unreadable expression. "And it was determined that the law would, theoretically, be applied in the event that you did not desire to commit the crime."

Peter felt shocked, his fingertips buzzing. He was beginning to regret tuning the conversation out; when had that been brought up? His frown deepened, further, when he realized where this thread might be going, before his gaze widened as he processed what Mr. Glazkov had last stated. In confessing, he had also confessed that he _hadn't_ wanted to do it whatsoever. His intent had been to sway them to convict him, but in the process had inadvertently opened up a new option entirely. An expansive self-defense claim.

"The same law was granted in favor of Mr. Barnes when his hearing was held, supported by evidence. However, it was also backed by a specialized condition; he would be released of the crimes he committed under HYDRA, so long as the Avengers would cooperate with the United Nations whenever a world-wide threat would arise." T'Challa remarked, before letting his gaze peruse the room. "A similar action can be followed through to satisfy both arguments."

The room erupted in low murmurs of speculation at what the judges had in mind. Ms. Collins spoke, next, face unreadable. "Mr. Parker still committed the murders, but has confessed to feeling remorseful. Evidence exists to support that a self-defense ruling can be made. However... due to the nature of the situation, it cannot be denied that Mr. Parker could still be prone to violence and succumb to killing outside of this room." She turned to stare at her fellow judges, moved away from the microphone, and began discussing quietly with Mr. Glazkov and T'Challa, who did similarly.

Throughout the duration of the hearing, they had taken note of the points made on both sides to make a fair, unbiased decision. Peter could've listened in to what they were discussing, but his senses were still scrambling to keep up with the change of events in the wake of his confession and panic. They spoke between themselves for a few minutes, before turning back to face the room. Mr. Glazkov spoke. "A verdict has been reached that all three judges can agree to." His gaze wandered around the room before eventually settling on Peter. Peter felt himself freeze under that gaze as he waited, breathless, for the words that would seal his fate.

"With consideration to the situation, it has been decided that Mr. Peter Benjamin Parker will be granted a three year probationary period, until he becomes a legal adult in the United States, his country of origin. During this probationary period he will be given the opportunity to be rehabilitated. While the probationary period is active, he will be under the watch of the Avengers and SHIELD. Since Mr. Parker is a minor with no living relatives, his primary care will be entrusted to Mr. Anthony Stark, who will be granted full temporary guardianship of Mr. Parker for as long as the probationary period persists, or until temporary guardianship is no longer desired, whichever comes first. In the event that Mr. Anthony Stark is not around to provide guardianship, however, a designated person or persons of Mr. Stark's choosing may provide guardianship temporarily. The Avengers and SHIELD will also be granted such privileges for the duration of his stay." He paused to clear his throat, before continuing, "Upon the passing of his 18th birthday, the United Nations will convene once more. If Mr. Parker has sufficiently rehabilitated enough to illustrate to the panel that he can become a functioning member of society, with provided evidence, the charges against his person will be dropped and he will be granted full citizenship status. However, if it becomes evident at any point during the three year probationary period that Mr. Parker is a threat to the welfare of innocent civilians through unwarranted violence and death, with indisputable evidence, so as to avoid false claims, he will be promptly put on trial and convicted of the crimes, of which a new decision will be made."

They weren't finished, however, it seemed, as T'Challa delivered the finishing statement. "Given his enhanced status, if Mr. Parker expresses the desire to use his abilities for the purpose of hero work, he may be allowed to do so, as long as the United Nations, SHIELD, and the Avengers are made aware of the choice. Use of his enhanced abilities will not be restricted so long as Mr. Parker is being monitored and nothing of harm comes from their use. If Mr. Parker desires to share the abilities in a safe manner, it is not something the United Nations will be involved in." A small smile tugged at the corners of his lip. "The United Nations will coordinate with the Avengers and SHIELD as necessary to help with the rehabilitation process of Mr. Parker. Discussion of HYDRA and his past identity of Weaver, the probation, and the verdict will not be made public knowledge for the duration of the probation, and will only become public in the event that Mr. Parker is convicted of the crimes. Non-disclosure agreements will be filled out and retained with the files in this building and will be kept for all three years of the probation. That is all."

Peter was reeling, in a state of disbelief, as the judges stood and bowed. He hadn't bothered to stand since he _couldn't,_ but it didn't seem to be expected of him. The judges left, and with their departure, the room broke out in conversation once more as people began filing out. He was numb to it all, the verdict still ringing through his ears.

He had three years to prove himself, to showcase that he genuinely _wanted_ to be better. He had three years to make a case for himself, to show the world that he was his own person, and that he could move past his past. Peter was granted three years of extra time to decide his _own_ fate. It was so unbelievably unexpected that the mutant could barely process that he had been granted a _second chance._ Admittedly, it wasn't the most freeing second chance, but Peter found that he didn't really care. It satisfied the guilt that had been tearing through his fragile mind like paper. He wasn't being let off easy; he had to _earn_ his place, to _give_ those deaths meaning.

For the first time, his future was in his hands.

Peter was determined to _not_ take it for granted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had y'all worried for a second there, didn't I?
> 
> Next time on OWOW: Peter gets to see how the rest of his life might start looking like.
> 
> Join the Discord for updates, information, and chatting!: https://discord.gg/7jYYC36


	15. Keepers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go, with the last chapter of Iolaus! After this I'll be taking a break from posting to build up the chapters for Strange Encounters. :)

Peter was snapped back to reality when he felt a gentle hand lay softly on his shoulder, and he looked back up to see Pepper. There was something indiscernible in her expression, but the one thing he couldn't mistake was the relief on her face at the pleasant verdict. His gaze drifted over to the others as they came up and past, and though he could tell they were more than pleased, the mutant could feel some tension in the air. Thinking back on the situation, he supposed the tension was warranted; he _had_ tried to get himself imprisoned while they had been fighting for his freedom. The former asset couldn't help but wonder when he would be confronted on those thoughts.

But that seemed to be tabled for another day, as the high spirits far outweighed the concerns. With the stress of what the UN would say out of the way, the optimism of the heroes was infectious. His left leg still ached but it was easy to brush to the side in the face of the weight that had lightened on his chest. The guilt was still there, and Peter could feel it if he focused on it, but it was consoled by the knowledge that he _could_ finally do better by those deaths. At least enough to make up for what he'd helped do.

As they were leaving through the door into the lobby, T'Challa met up with them, a broad smile on his face. He no longer wore the judge robes and was instead in a casual suit attire. The others went up to the man and thanked him for his help, and the king modestly brushed their appraisal off with a simple, "It was what should have been done. I am sure it would have gone well regardless. Mr. Glazkov and Ms. Collins were quite fair."

"I'm glad to know you feel that way, T'Challa," Ms. Collins mused, approaching the group. She was no longer in judge robes, wearing a casually formal shirt and pants. A small smile was on her face as she brushed her cropped dirty blonde hair to the side, gray eyes showing a spark of mischief that had otherwise not been there during the proceedings. "Though, you are correct; it was what should've been done." Her gaze drifted to Peter, and she added, "You deserve another chance regardless of what you might believe, Peter Parker."

Peter kept his eyes firmly trained to Ms. Collins as she gave her statement, and fought the urge to look away when she finished. He still didn't quite believe he did, but the decision had already been made. He would have to make the most of it. His voice was still gone from his outburst earlier, but he gently tapped a thanks. He was really beginning to regret absentmindedly leaving his phone behind in the car.

"You're welcome," she responded, though a small sigh escaped her lips. "With the verdict, though, comes some... _other_ things that need to be addressed."

Tony frowned. "Are they _bad_ things, Ms. Collins?"

"Call me Cora. Fortunately, they _aren't;_ but they _are_ legalities." Cora gestured with a hand to bring them away from the lobby and into one of the side hallways and to an empty room, since it wasn't a conversation that needed any bystanders. Once the group had complied, she continued, "I will need to pull some strings, but I should be capable of getting you all of Peter's legal papers within the next few days. In a normal circumstance, the papers would usually be with CPS and granted to guardians as they saw fit. However, you won't be going through CPS, seeing as the circumstance is more complicated. Since you have been granted temporary guardianship, I'd like to give them to you as soon as possible." She sat down on one of the chairs that had been in the room, running a hand down her face. "Though it will unfortunately take a bit to get them _active_ again."

"Because he was missing, right?" Wanda asked, curious.

Cora shook her head. "No, it's because he was legally declared dead."

At that, they blinked, and despite his voice protesting, Peter croaked out, "What?"

Cora frowned at the confusion. "...None of you knew? There was an obituary and a burial for one Peter Benjamin Parker ten and a half years ago."

Vision piped up, "I believe I have found the article you were mentioning." The android's face fell as he scanned through the paper that only he could see. Once he finished, a frown dressed his face. "That is quite unfortunate."

"Wasn't he a missing person's case?" Steve asked, brow furrowed. "I wasn't around at the time, but from what I knew of the situation, I thought the case would've been left cold and unresolved."

"That was how it originally started," Cora said, before realizing she would need to explain the story in full. "On the night of November 8th, 2006, a car accident had been reported on the corner of 193rd Street and Union Turnpike, right next to Cunningham Park, at 5:37 PM. By the time police arrived, a small crowd had gathered around the car. An ambulance had also been called, but Benjamin Franklin Parker and May Parker were found dead at the scene. Witnesses had allegedly claimed that a young child had been with the occupants, and had been taken away after the only other living survivor, Ben, was shot dead. The men had been disguised by the dark surroundings and their concealing clothing, but it was presumed Peter was still alive when taken. The NYPD took the case up immediately and began the search, and even sent out an Amber alert. They acted as swiftly as they could, but were not optimistic; 88.5% of abducted children are dead within the first 24 hours. The search went on for three days, when their efforts were halted by an abandoned building being lit on fire. Upon extinguishing the fire, along with a substantial amount of ash, the only other remains were four teeth from Peter." Her eyes had drifted to Peter as she had went on, and an almost apologetic tone laced her words. "The ashes were plentiful enough for someone of Peter's size and height, but couldn't be tied to a body. With the other searches for him running into dead ends, the worst was assumed, and Peter was declared dead in absentia. It was quite the sad story; a twice orphaned missing child being killed after being kidnapped. The missing person's case was concluded and a death certificate was made. As there was no one else from the family that could be considered an heir, the assets were claimed and distributed by the state."

The end of the story left a sour taste in their mouths, and Peter felt floored. He could remember they had taken a few of his teeth two days after he'd been taken, but hadn't really thought of what it would be used for. A sick feeling built up in his stomach at the thought that they had been used to fake his own death. He couldn't help the sardonic laugh that rang at the back of his skull, though, upon hearing the statistic. _We didn't die within the first 24 hours,_ Weaver chimed wryly, _But it_ was _met eventually, thrice. I suppose a death certificate for you is appropriate._

_Thanks, I needed the reminder that I've died before. I would've forgotten had you not so helpfully brought it up._ Peter thought back, a mild annoyance sparking up at the thought.

"That's unfortunate," Natasha remarked from where she sat, leaned casually against Bruce with her legs resting on Clint's lap. "Would Peter be liable to get any of the assets back since he's been found alive?"

Cora nodded. "The old buildings his family used to own and many of their items, no. But the life insurance can be claimed, as well as the money that would've become his inheritance. There are a few items that are Parker property that could be taken back, I suppose, though you would need to bring it up with the people that held on to the items."

"What were the items, and who has them?" Tony asked curiously.

"A small box of VHS tapes, the research from Richard and Mary that Ben and May had held onto, a photo album, and several framed pictures were granted to Nicholas Fury, given his relation to the family. An old suitcase of Ben's, a box of vinyls May collected, and a small camera Peter had were granted to Jonah and Chesa Leeds, family friends of Ben and May," Cora listed off, before adding, "I'm unsure if they would still possess the items, but if they do, if Peter wants, he can claim them once more." A wry smile crossed her face. "It might be in your best interest to let the Leeds know Peter is alive, at some point. While they hadn't known Peter long, since he only lived with his aunt and uncle for four months, they kept insisting he was alive. It wouldn't hurt to prove them right." She frowned, before adding, "It might also do good to look into getting the grave revoked as well, as it is no longer validated."

"Alright, thank you for letting us know." Pepper concluded.

She stood to leave, shaking their hands, taking Peter's last. "I wish you the best of luck, young man. I'll do my best to assist where I can during the probation to ensure you get to enjoy life after being away from it for so long. It's the least I can do," Cora straightened, then gave them a wave. "You know how to contact me. Let me know if you need anything else. I will nullify the death certificate and get everything else back up and running, and deliver the paperwork to the Compound in a few days. So, for now, I bid you farewell." With one last smile, the U.S. ambassador left, and a few minutes later, so too did the heroes.

* * *

On the ride back home, Tony and Pepper had called ahead to the Compound to let the staff know the news, and asked them to be on the lookout for packages as they would arrive. They sat in the back with Peter and, on the return trip, spent time quietly talking to the mutant as they shopped around to get him the basics. Peter had no preferences, since he'd mostly forgotten a lot of what he had once liked, and wasn't entirely sure what he would like now, but he had asked for longer clothes and some equipment he could have in his room for tinkering with the prosthetics once they were completed. After that he'd been dismissed from picking out items and stared out at the late April evening, half-listening to the conversations and unaware of what else any of his new keepers would be getting him.

When they got to the Compound, Peter felt a rush of clarity brush his thoughts as the true gravity of the situation truly began to settle on him. He'd be living in this building and with these people for a long time... and for once, the thought of being stuck in one place with many people was comforting. It would take a while, but when Peter thought of the Compound, he admitted to himself that he might one day be swayed to call it a home. _Who knows? Maybe you'll find a family in them, too._ Weaver chimed as an afterthought.

They met up with the others in the common room, and Peter drew himself short when he saw the welcome banner slung across the ceiling, with a few balloons. Food was set out on the counters, and a few small gifts were sat on a side table. Peter was, at first, surprised at how fast it had been set up, but after recalling how many people worked at the Compound, it wasn't that outrageous to assume they could've decorated during the long drive. A constricted feeling twisted in Peter's chest, but it wasn't melancholy; it was a quiet fondness that he couldn't quite place what it was directed to, the gesture or the providers. The former asset supposed it was both.

The welcome party was tame, with only the Avengers and a few close associates, to prevent it from being too overwhelming. He got to hear parts of a mission between Natasha and Clint to Budapest, watched an arm-wrestling contest between Steve and Bucky, and was introduced to Hope van Dyne and Hank Pym by Scott, both of whom had, at first, looked intimidating, but had turned out to be kind (Peter hadn't been fooled by their external appearance, though; it was easy to see through the formalities and find the nice natures behind it). He listened as the heroes told stories of past excursions, learned of T'Challa's country and sister, and watched the Mario Kart duel that broke out between Sam, Scott, Wanda, and Clint. A small smile had brushed his face as Rhodey recounted one of Tony's embarrassing stories from college (though Peter had mostly been confused by the story, it was funny watching the usually level-headed Tony get flustered), and when he had moved off to the side to inspect some of the books around the room, Vision had been helpful in giving him synopses.

The food was delicious, and of all kinds of varieties, many of which Peter hadn't really seen or tasted before. The one he found himself most drawn to was pizza, however. He'd tried a slice out of curiosity, and had grown enraptured by the meal, the food easily becoming his favorite. Pepper came in and out, moving among the party and then moving away to do something. When asked, she had only said that it was important, so the question wasn't pursued further.

Eventually, the gifts were gotten to. They weren't the most extravagant things; a small chemistry set, a watch, some jackets and hoodies. The gesture wasn't lost on Peter despite the slightly generic items. He supposed that when he had more things he liked they would get more refined later, if he ever got gifts later. The gift-giving was a new novel concept to the mutant. The sincerity of the gesture made Peter happy, and he decided that the only thing that really mattered to him was that it made him happy, and it made them happy. It was a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time, but it was one the assassin wasn't keen to let go of.

As the party began to dwindle down, there was one last surprise, and he was led through the living quarters until they came upon a door with a new tag on it, marked in dark red and blue colors as _'Peter's room'._ The door was opened for him so he could wheel into the room, and he was breathless when he did. It was a simple room, really, but it was large. Some wheelchair accessibility had been built in, with a rack off to the side should the vehicle ever be needed again in the future after he got his prosthetics back. A large bed sat off to the side, covered in a dark blue bed set and draped in a weighted dark red blanket. He was shown over to the closet, where clothes had been sorted and neatly stashed away. There was a corner of the room that was tiled instead of carpeted that housed a small working station, where the chemistry set was sat, and the box of equipment for fixing prosthetics was laid, along with drawers of other screws, lug nuts, tools, and metal sheets. A window was beside the desk, and a red desk lamp hung from the wall, a small pile of books illuminated under the warm glow of the light. A computer and a laptop were sitting on the longer end of the desk, away from the workshop components, and that end of the desk was bordered by a lightly filled bookshelf.

"You can decorate your room as you please," Pepper affirmed, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, "But we made do with what was available. Do you like it?"

Peter stared at the room with a warm, tingly feeling he couldn't quite identify caught in his chest. But what he _did_ know was that it was the best room he had ever had the pleasure of living in, though, in hindsight, that wasn't a high standard to clear. The thought that all of this was _his_ to use, _only_ his, and that he could do with the room as he pleased was one that he _knew_ the feeling for; appreciation. He couldn't imagine he would ever take that feeling for granted.

So, with a smile cracking across his face, he managed to say, "Yes. Thank you so much."

* * *

A few days had gone by, and Tony had deemed the prosthetics well enough to work, even though they weren't as finished as he would've liked. Peter hadn't minded, though; he was getting a bit stir-crazy being limited to the wheelchair, and was willing to take the prosthetics with less features at the moment more than being restricted to the wheeled assistance. They had agreed to work on it more sporadically going forward, so he wouldn't be stuck down two functional limbs. The prosthetics lacked the sticky grip, and the web-shooter hadn't been implemented into the arm, but they were capable of moving around, so Peter hadn't minded. Upon screwing and clamping the prosthetics on, though, some differences were immediately noticeable; they responded better to the chips, and were lighter than the last version. The small muted gold and metallic blue accents also had more personality than the plain metallic gray ones he used to have, and that was something the mutant appreciated, since they were also visually distinct from what _they_ had given him. It felt more lively.

Since he was more mobile now, though, the inevitable could no longer be prolonged. Tony and Pepper were taking him to visit the Calvary Cemetery in Queens, and the closer they got, the more nervous Peter became. His left hand fidgeted along the plating of his right hand, and it was only the presence of mind that he wasn't going alone that prevented his anxieties from ratcheting higher. Nevertheless, the car arrived, and after asking an attendant, the graves were found. Tony and Pepper, after leaving a bouquet on the graves, told the mutant they were going to be nearby and left him alone with the tombstones.

His gaze traced the names etched in stone, trailing along his parents, first and foremost, then panning over to his aunt and uncle... and finally resting on his own. It was odd, seeing his own grave, resting in the arms of the rest of his long-buried family. A small note had been etched under the date of his supposed death, _'Gone, but not forgotten. May the afterlife be pleasant to the child claimed too soon.'_ Wasn't that an ironic statement? He supposed it was meant to be kind, but it was painfully accurate. He was gone, and had miraculously not been forgotten. He had been claimed too soon, but he was alive now, after dying, and the afterlife was looking more favorable now. He wondered who had chosen that to be on his tombstone, since it couldn't have been his family.

He knelt gently down in front of the graves, hands folded awkwardly in his lap as he cleared his throat. "Uh... hey... Dad? Mom? Aunt May and... Uncle Ben?" he whispered out, brow furrowed. They hadn't been his relatives for ten and a half years; was it still appropriate to call them by those titles?

Frowning, he started again. "Hi, Richard, Mary, Ben, and May. It's... it's Peter," one of his hands reached to scratch at the back of his neck as he quietly continued, "Y-your, uh... son and nephew. Remember me? I... hope you do, or... this is going to be awkward..."

_It's already awkward,_ Weaver remarked. _You're pretty good at that._

Ignoring the thought, Peter shifted in his spot. "A-Anyways, uh... I... I know it's been a while. Ten years, five months, and twenty-one days, to be precise... uh... sorry I couldn't visit sooner? I was... preoccupied." He winced internally at that last thought. Preoccupied was the _polite_ way of putting it.

The mutant then felt bad about lying to the graves, so he amended, "Well, I, uh... I mean... I... I was in the hands of some pretty bad people for a while," his voice was barely discernible, edged in cracks. "Like, _really_ bad. I-I'm sure Richard and Mary, you... you probably knew who they were." The thought that they had been SHIELD agents was still something he was trying to wrap his head around. He shifted again, picking at the plating on his right hand. "May, Ben... I, uh..." he frowned, brow furrowed.

His frame began to tremble as he clutched his arms tighter and scrunched in on himself. "I... I'm _sorry._ " The choked words came out before he could stop them, and he could feel the guilt threaten to eat him alive when faced with the reality of the situation. A dark storm swirled in his head, and his lips kept spilling the thoughts as they came in a desperate attempt to stop the storm before it became a hurricane. "If... if it weren't for _me_ being the way I am, maybe you guys could've lived..." his fingers were clenched tightly around his arms, and he was too numb to register the bruising his strong grip was giving his flesh hand. "They wanted _me,_ y-you guys didn't have to _die_ because of that..."

Peter hunched in on himself, the thunder in his head growing louder and louder. "I-if I had just been born _normal,_ maybe they would've left you guys alone. B-but instead I-I had to be born with these weird... these _scary_ instincts and these weird powers and n-now you're all dead and I'm a killing machine and _they were the ones who ruined us but they wouldn't have been tempted had I not been messed up in the first place-_ "

His thoughts were interrupted by a rain drop hitting his nose, and he blinked back to reality, the oppressive darkness that had been encroaching on him receding back into the moody gray clouds that had gathered overhead. An April shower, just before May. A small snort built in his chest, and a broken chortle left his lips as he reared his head back, eyes closed, to the skies. His laugh was only heard by himself, since his voice had all but vanished on him. When the sudden laughing fit broke away, he wiped a tear and a raindrop away from his cheek, staring at them speculatively. "Was that your way of trying to cheer me up?" he pondered in a whisper, head lightly tilted to the side. A huff left his lips, and he shook his head. "Well, it worked." The rain wasn't more than a drizzle, and it wasn't cold enough to make Peter all that worried about moving out of it at the moment. He pressed the thumb into the dirt lightly. "Thanks, if that was you. I was... going somewhere I don't want to be."

The mutant's thoughts were quieter now, and he sat in a more relaxed position in front of the graves, head tucked between his knees and arms wrapped around his legs until he heard footsteps approaching. His initial thought was that it was Tony and Pepper returning now that there was a drizzle, but he frowned a second later when the gaits were different. He lifted his head to spot Fury and Faulers coming his way, and Peter blinked. He wasn't expecting to see either of them here; for that matter, he wasn't really expecting to see Faulers again.

Both had flowers in their hands, and laid a few beside the graves, before handing him two flowers. "I heard it was polite to bring flowers for the dead," Nick said, though there was a slight smile to his stony features that made Peter certain it was a joke.

And, well, he supposed it _was_ true; he _had_ been dead, both legally _and_ literally. He laid the flowers on his lap before he pulled out his phone and had the TTS read, "'Thanks for the flowers. What are you two doing here?'"

"Paying our respects to some fine men and women. I hope we weren't interrupting?" Fury had phrased it like a question, but it was certainly rhetorical.

"'Not at all. You'd know them better than I do, for that matter. I hope I wasn't interrupting _you._ '" Peter had meant it, too. Technically, the former SHIELD director _had_ known them longer than he had.

"Funny, Parker," Nick mused. "You're the one we were looking for, actually. We heard you were out visiting your folks, though. It's been a while since I last swung by, I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone."

Peter frowned at the idiom, making a note to Google what it meant later. Instead, he typed out, "'Well, you found me. What did you want?'"

The intimidating man pulled out a large photo album from his coat and handed it to Peter. It was leather-bound and tied together with string, with the words, _PARKER FAMILY ALBUM_ etched in gold on the cover. Peter's fingers hovered hesitantly by the cover, before dropping, staring at Nick in quiet shock. Upon seeing the stare, a small smirk etched itself onto Nick's face. "I heard word that you might want what little of your folks' old things you could get your hands on, so I figured I would take the initiative." He gestured to the album. "I had the research, VHS tapes, and framed photos sent on ahead to your room, but I wanted to give the photo album to you personally. Mary worked tirelessly on it, and I made sure to keep it in good condition."

Peter's mouth went dry, and his fingers edged the cover once more. This time, though, he flipped it open. The first image immediately made his body freeze up. It was a family photo, professionally taken. Ben and May were on the left, and May was laughing about something that Ben had said, while the former had a broad smile on his face. May's glasses were slightly askew, and Ben's tie seemed to be intentionally crooked. Richard and Mary were on the other side, bright grins on both of their faces. In the middle was a young child with scattered freckles that were already beginning to fade and a megawatt smile, grinning up at his family. It took a few moments for his brain to register that it was _him._ His breathing quieted as he brushed his right hand absentmindedly across the photo as a dim memory flashed through the foggy remnants of his old life, of a warm light-filled place and bubbling laughter, before the metallic hand caught his attention, bringing him back to reality. His gaze fixated on the date, written neatly in the corner alongside the caption of, _'The Parkers';_ June 2nd, 2006.

He didn't dare move further into the book, worried about getting lost in his head while still in the cemetery. He closed the book gently, before looking at Nick once more. "Thank you."

Nick seemed happy with that, and clapped Faulers on the shoulder. "I'll leave you two alone, then. I'm going to go let Tony and Pepper know about what I left at the Compound." With that, the man disappeared, leaving him alone with the agent.

Peter shifted slightly, unsure of what to say. Faulers seemed to beat him to the punch, though. "I'm glad." The plain-looking man murmured.

The mutant tilted his head, letting the TTS read out, "'For what?'"

Faulers smiled. "I'm glad that our operation was a success. That all our hard work and effort paid off in the end."

_Oh. That's what this conversation will be about._ "'It's unfortunate Carmen and Omen didn't make it.'" Peter had the TTS speak, though it lacked the sad note that came with his thought.

Faulers gave a nod to that. "Last and Kahale were good agents," he mused, though added, "But Sariah and Kaleah were better friends. I don't imagine I could've done what needed to be done had they not had my back."

The trembling had come back, and Peter mutely typed, "'Carmen could've made it. Omen was dead when we checked after you left. But Carmen killed herself just to make sure I wouldn't get in trouble, and to cover your tracks.'" His typing had slowed at the memory, and he clenched his eyes shut momentarily. Then, he finished shakily, "'Carmen let me know what you guys were doing. She was the first person to give me hope of freedom in many years. I _hate_ that she had to die for me. I wasn't worth it.'"

Faulers shook his head. "Sariah wouldn't kill herself for nothing, Peter," his voice was gentle and respectful, full of fondness at a bond now lost. "She knew her job would one day be the death of her. Hell, she _was_ with them, at one point. We turned her around to our cause."

Peter recalled her saying something to that effect, but it hadn't really clicked in his head. She had been one of the ones pulling the strings, had been doing bad things, but ultimately decided to use it to do good instead. She died a hero, as far as he was concerned. "'...So she took a bad situation... and made a better opportunity out of it.'" It wasn't a question, but rather a statement. He huffed, his brain making the connection that he was in a similar position, wanting to do the same thing. Would he ultimately die the same way? He wasn't sure.

A pleasant silence had developed between them, but Peter was growing a bit cold now from the light drizzle. He stood, adjusting the photo album to rest between his phoneless arm as he cupped the flowers between his fingers. He wasn't quite finished with the conversation yet. "'I don't know if there's enough words in the languages I know to say how grateful I am for what you guys did. Really.'" He finished typing what he wanted to say, then stared at the cloud-covered skies as it read aloud. "'Without you, I doubt I would have ever made it out. I'd... I'd tried to escape before. You probably knew that, though. It was never successful. I tried for so many years... and boy, do I regret that now. My body and my mind are paying for the disobedience. It was pure luck that you SHIELD agents happened to be there, and it was pure luck that I miraculously lived through it all to take the freedom the opportunity offered, even if it's limited... and broken by trauma.'" He scratched at the back of his neck, before extending his phone-free hand out to Faulers. "'So, thank you. I don't ever think I could repay what you all gave me. But... I'll at least try my best to make it worth it. For those that were lost along the way. Thank you, Faulers, for opening up the way for a second chance.'"

With a bright grin, Faulers took his extended hand and shook it, but then shook his head. "You don't ever need to repay it, Peter. You shouldn't have had to have been subjected to those circumstances in the first place. It's the least we could've done. But, please, call me James. I'd like to think the last name formality has already been passed to first name status, don't you?"

Peter wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. James began to pull away, and he asked one last question. "'Where are you off to, now?'"

James smiled back, before raising his hands and wiggling his fingers. "It's a seeeecreeet." He enthused with a dramatic voice, before rolling his eyes. "Another SHIELD mission, nowhere near as dangerous as the last was. We'll be coordinating with Glazkov to stamp out the last of the fires from Siberia. After that, who knows?" He shrugged. "It'll be an adventure."

Peter shook his head, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lip. "'Good luck, James. Be safe.'"

James laughed. "I should be saying that to you." He got more serious, but the happy countenance never left his face. "You're gonna go far, kid. I've no doubt about that. I can't wait to see what the future has in store." He began to walk off, offering one last wave. "Goodbye, Peter. I hope we meet again."

"'Goodbye, James.'" He had the TTS read, before offering a wave of his own. He pocketed the phone, hugging the photo album close to his chest. Then, his gaze fixed on the graves one last time, and he laid a hand on each of the tombs, including his own. As he pulled back, he whispered, "I'm still a mess, and I'll be lucky to be anything but a disaster... but I'll try my best to make the most of my situation," he placed one of the flowers he'd been given onto his own grave, and tucked the other just beneath the cover of the photo album. "I'll make you proud."

And as he left, going to meet back up with Tony and Pepper, a gentle sunbeam broke through the drizzle to illuminate the flowers gently, and a small breeze stirred. The petals rustled, and with it, came a silent whisper.

_You already have._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes: - The statistic of the mortality rate of murdered children was as accurate as I could find.
> 
> \- I wasn't originally planning on having Peter have a grave, until I realized that a) according to death in absentia, he would've been presumed dead anyways considering he was injured during the wreck and most kidnapped children never survive long, and b) faking his death would be something Ross and HYDRA would've done so that the risk of being caught would be drastically reduced.
> 
> \- I had always planned on having the Leeds be a family friend given the close nature of MCU Peter and Ned, and considering I went with death in absentia, I decided to include mention of the family here. The unfortunate thing was there's not a lot given on MCU Ned, so I made up his parents's names based on Jacob Batalon's own heritage.
> 
> \- Considering that 'Carmen' and 'Omen' are no longer usable, and 'Coin' was never intended to be around forever, I decided this would be the perfect chapter to give their names of Sariah Last, Kaleah Kamale, and James Faulers. I'm uncertain if I will include James in future chapters, but I'll leave that up to you, the readers, to decide. :)
> 
> \- I purposefully framed the chapter to feel like a somewhat open-ended conclusion; an end to one segment but with plenty of foundational blocks to build the rest of the series on. Iolaus, framing-wise, would technically be considered a 'prequel' of sorts to the rest of the series, as the rest of the series cannot exist without this arc but the story didn't necessarily have to start with this arc. However, starting with this does make it much easier to understand and swing into the future dynamics and story elements without having to backtrack drastically to explain the more heavy AU aspects of this series. :)
> 
> Next time on OWOW: A visit into the Big Apple, magic, and odd encounters.
> 
> Join the Discord for updates, info, chatting, and more!: https://discord.gg/7jYYC36


	16. Sensory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip into town ends in unexpected developments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry it's been so long; a lot of stuff came up and I had a lot of time to think about the future of this story. I decided to make a pretty substantial change to my initial plans that ironically already worked out well for the chapters I'd already written. For you guys on FFN, the edit to what it is will be included in the AN of the first chapter, while for you guys on AO3 the edit to what it is will be in the tags. I also won't be responding to many comments and reviews anymore since it took a lot of time; I'll still be reading them though even if I don't respond! Regardless of that, I'm continuing the story the way I want it to be told; feel free to stick around if that hits your fancy! More chapters (hopefully) coming soon.

_"So, it's all well and good now that you're free. Is that what you're thinking, Peter Parker?" A voice whispered at the edges of his consciousness._

_Peter blinked into consciousness inside of a nearly black room, a spotlight hovering over his head. The fog was dense and thick, and despite his better eyesight, the surroundings were impermeable. A cold shiver ran down his spine, but it wasn't his senses warning him of danger. This room was very familiar to the assassin; one that he had often escaped to whenever he wasn't plagued by nightmares or awake. He'd dubbed it the 'Mind Prison' because, for as much as it served as a reprieve from the outside world, it also happened to be where he locked his thoughts away._

_He stared into the abyss, knowing full well what this place could do if he wanted it to. Something about what the voice whispered had crept under his skin, and, with a squint, he remarked, "We've already been through Hell and back. How much worse do you think it's going to get, Weaver?"_

_"That wasn't me, friend," Another voice chimed nearby, and a figure much similar in appearance to him appeared off to the side. He sat on a crate, spinning a knife dexterously between his fingers. The biggest differences between himself and Weaver were that Weaver's scars weren't healed over and still bled, and the eyes were a solid black. He also had a tendency to part his slightly long curly hair more heavily on the right side. Weaver stuck the knife into the crate and added, "How many of us do you have in here? It's going to get rather crowded if this keeps up. We don't need anyone new stepping on our turf."_

_The voice seemed to laugh at the thought, and for a second, Peter swore he saw many figures, darker than black, moving through the room just out of sight. With an amused tone, the voice chimed quietly, "More than you know, Weaver. Oh, and you're mistaken; I've been here longer than you, friend."_

_Weaver seemed to frown at that, and, raising an eyebrow, he yanked the knife out of the crate and pointed it at the darkness. "That doesn't mean anything here. And don't call me a friend; I don't know who you are."_

_"You don't?" The voice hissed in quiet contemplation. With a hum, it said, "That should be amended."_

_Peter felt a ghostly touch against his body, and he lifted his hands to see barely visible webs attached to his joints. Turning, he saw Weaver attached by the same strings. The former asset frowned, before a familiar feeling crept through his bones, and a realization dawned on him as he glanced up. "...You're my spider instincts?"_

_"I'm glad they failed to rob you of your full intellect," the voice hissed, and a large spider skittered out of the darkness. Webs stretched from it into the darkness, and he once more caught glimpses of dark figures in the distance as they lurched forward with the spider moving. The spider remarked rhetorically, "I'm sure you recognize me now?"_

_Weaver stilled, and an odd look crossed his face. "...Why didn't I recognize you?"_

_The spider ignored that, and with an enthusiastic chitter, said, "How exciting! Now that we're free, I can finally spread my legs!" To emphasize the motion, the spider stretched its legs out, and with the motion, the webs extending from the spider moved with it. Figures in the dark stumbled forward once more, and Peter and Weaver were yanked a foot towards the spider. Peter instinctively planted his feet, tugging against the webs, while Weaver slashed out at the webs with the knife. The knife broke against the strand and clattered to the ground._

_Weaver's eyes narrowed, and he snarled, "Lay_ one _leg on Peter and I'll personally squish you like the insect you are."_

 _"Arachnid, my friend," the spider cooed, before it laughed. "Besides, I would doubt that. You said the length of time you've been here doesn't matter? I would beg to differ. Y'see, your... other self here, Weaver, has had me his entire life. You came to join us eight years ago. That would make_ you _the unwelcome presence in the Mind Prison, going off your claim, especially since your... services should now largely be retired."_

_Peter's mask seemed to pause at that, before glowering at the spider. "If you've been here the entire time, why couldn't I remember you?"_

_The spider once more ignored the question, staring at Weaver as if inspecting an animal for the slaughter. "I suppose you can still be of..._ some _use, not just to Peter. Admittedly, I haven't gotten to_ play _in a while. I'm sure you'll be able to assist my reattachment to the world... won't you, impersonator?"_

_"Wh-"_

_"Why don't you just go ahead and wake up for me, Peter? I need to borrow your mask. Just for a little while, I promise. Then all can go right back to how it needs to be." The spider towered over Peter now, monstrous in size. Astoundingly, its mouth seemed to morph into a crooked smile. "See ya on the flip side."_

As the spider drove its mouth down to consume him, Peter snapped awake, jolting upright in bed. The weighted blanket kept him from moving much further, and he squirmed uncomfortably under it, brushing it to the side so he could slide off of the bed and onto the floor, back propped against the bed. He stared at the ceiling, unable to shake the unease from the dream. _That's what it had to be, right? Just a dream?_ Peter thought to himself. He let out a breath and rubbed his right arm to ease his nerves.

"Are you alright, Peter?" FRIDAY's voice chimed, and Peter stuck his feet to the ground so he wouldn't leap. He still flinched, and noting this, FRIDAY dialed her volume down until it was nothing more than a caressing whisper. "Apologies, I was unaware you would react poorly to my interruption. Are you alright? Would you like me to get assistance?"

Peter clutched a fist into the carpet, before realizing the force of his grab would murder the flooring. As he let go of the carpet, pieces of it came off onto his palm, and he picked them off. "No, no. I'm... I'm alright," he huffed, before running a hand down his face. "Just... y'know, I know I've only slept in this room a week, and you've asked me this question every time I've woken up. I think it's safe to say, at this point, that it's unnecessary to get anyone when I wake up, alright?"

"Noted," FRIDAY remarked, though there seemed to be some displeasure in her tone, which, admittedly, Peter wasn't quite sure how she managed that with no emotions. "I would like to remind you that Boss asked me to check on you regardless of your personal requests if it becomes serious. He put me in charge of your safety while in your room and asked me to contact the nearest person should you be in mortal jeopardy."

"Of course he did," the former asset huffed. "Really, I'm _fine._ I didn't have a heart attack or hurt myself in my sleep or something like that, so there's nothing to tell the others about."

An affirmative noise hummed gently from the ceiling. "Very well, if you say so. Boss wanted me to remind you of the schedule you guys laid out for today."

Standing, the mutant rolled his eyes as he got ready for the day, scrunching his nose as he caught sight of the early time. "I remember it perfectly fine. We're exploring to kill some downtime until the Leeds get back from work and school, and then Tony and I are meeting them to get the rest of the items to complete the remnants of the Parker legacy," he muttered the last part dryly, before sighing. "What are we even going to tell them?" He tried to do a voice, but strained it too hard, which caused his voice to lower to a whisper. With a displeased frown, he simply typed the rest out and had the TTS read it. "Are we just gonna walk up to them and go, 'Hey, I know you've had these items for ten and a half years, but could we have them? They technically belong to me. Oh, yeah, by the way, I wasn't actually dead! I was just being tortured, trained, and forced to kill others!'"

FRIDAY seemed to pause for a moment, before remarking, "From my knowledge, that would not be an intelligent course of action."

Peter had finished getting changed and was running a comb idly through his hair, before giving up when the messy curls wouldn't cooperate. He had the TTS read, "Yeah, from my knowledge, that would be stupid. I'm not exactly keen on divulging that information, either. No one should be burdened with that knowledge if they don't have to be."

"Your guardians didn't have to be burdened by this knowledge, and yet they embraced it anyways." The AI pointed out.

He spritzed some throat spray down his throat and did a small vocal warm-up that had been recommended to him to get his voice back in working order, ignoring the statement for the moment. As he finished and soothed his throat with water, he quietly muttered, "If they hadn't been burdened by that knowledge, we wouldn't be where we are now, now would we?" With that finishing remark, he set off down the hallway, the thought of what could've been weaving its way quietly through his thoughts.

* * *

Peter squinted up at the tall structure deep in the city's heart, the sunlight glinting off of the skyscraper and illuminating the expensive structure. As he did so, he caught glimpse of the lettering that still adorned the side of the building, though it was clearly torn into as it was being disassembled. Turning to Tony, he remarked, " _This_ is the tower you guys talked about?"

Tony, clad in sunglasses and casual clothing in a failed attempt to blend in more, nodded. "It used to be where Pepper and I... well, mostly Pepper, used to run Stark Industries. After the Chitauri invasion, though, I remodeled it to be the Avengers headquarters. It seemed fitting at the time."

The mutant nodded. "It's... definitely hard to miss, Mr. Stark- sorry, Tony. You asked me to call you Tony."

The genius simply smiled. "We'll work on it, _Pete_." A smug grin had dressed his face at that remark, and Peter rolled his eyes. Tony had made it a point that, whenever Peter wouldn't refer to the inventor by his name, he'd purposefully call him anything _but_ Peter. The former asset supposed it was effective, because it _did_ make him feel more inclined to get the name right... though he supposed the nicknames weren't _that_ bad.

"Do you miss the access this building gave you to the rest of New York?" Peter asked as he got back in the car and buckled. Mr. Hogan, or as he preferred to be called, Happy, was in the driver's seat. It was just the three of them today; Pepper had wanted to join them, but she was instead called into meetings she couldn't miss as the SI CEO.

Tony slid into the back seat with him, buckled, and seemed to ponder the question a moment, before shaking his head. Sliding his sunglasses off, he said, "To be honest, Peter, even though I play with the best of them, I'm not overly fond of crowds or the paparazzi. They knew exactly where I'd be here and, even though I could have as much security as I'd like, some enthusiastic reporter's gonna find a way in." As the car drove off, he concluded, "But the Compound is much more secure, discreet, and hidden. The general public wouldn't really be able to interrupt us there."

Peter gave a quiet hum of agreement, staring out the window at the passing scenery. "Yeah, I remember catching a glimpse of the crowd on that first day after the aftermath. It was... large." A small frown dressed his face at the memory, and his somewhat pleased mood became soured at the thought.

The car fell silent for a few minutes, before Tony chimed, "Y'know, after it all, we went to get shawarma. It was pretty damn good if I say so myself. Wanna grab a bite for lunch?"

The mutant's brows furrowed as he turned to give his guardian a quizzical glance. "After saving the world from a _nuke_ and an _alien invasion_ you guys got _food_ as your first course of action?"

Tony gasped in faux offense. "Of _course_ we did! And we damn well deserved it!"

A smile crept onto Peter's face, before it became more uncertain. He rubbed his right arm. "I'm deserving of visiting the place you guys went after you became heroes...?"

The implication wasn't lost on the philanthropist, and he reached a hand out, placing it on Peter's knee. "God, Peter, _yes._ You're more than deserving of it," He turned to Happy. "To shawarma!"

As it turned out, the shawarma joint was _nothing_ like Peter would've expected. Considering that the Avengers, especially _Tony,_ had talked well of the place, he'd figured it would've been at some high-end restaurant. He was humbled to discover it was a rather nondescript corner food joint that was rather shabby. The former asset didn't need his better senses to tell this place was an _old_ part of New York City, and despite its appearance, it felt inviting. The food was excellent, and Peter listened quietly as Tony rambled on about their first visit to the establishment, before continuing on to other visits they'd done to the place. They'd been faithful through the years, and had even refused an endorsement when it had been offered, saying that they'd preferred to keep the restaurant as something only the daring and the inquisitive should take part in.

As the day drew on, Tony continued the tour as they made their way closer to Queens. It still floored Peter how many _people_ lived in New York, despite its rather cramped conditions. The assassin was grateful that Tony kept to places that were sparsely populated; the hubbub he heard as they drove through the busier parts of the city was enough to have him wincing from the cacophony of muffled voices. But the closer it got to the meeting time, the harder it was for Peter to distract himself from the nervousness that had crept up on him whenever he thought of greeting the Leeds. He'd been wracking his memories, trying to remember how they were, but all that met his search was static. The mutant fidgeted uncomfortably whenever he thought Tony or Happy weren't looking (of course, though, he knew they had seen his impatience).

Eventually, five thirty rolled around, and there was no more delaying it. The car pulled up to a small house in Queens and parked by the curb. Tony let out a breath, fiddling with the sunglasses. "We're here."

Peter's hands were clenched in his lap, and his shoulders had tensed without his notice. "I know."

"What do we want to tell the Leeds?" The billionaire asked, staring Peter in the eyes.

The former asset maintained eye contact for a few seconds before diverting his gaze. "...Preferably nothing... but that's not going to work out, would it?"

His guardian let out a sigh, averting his gaze to stare at the ceiling. "I wish it would, kid, I really do. But..."

"...They deserve to at least know I'm alive, if they still care, so they don't get upset about us removing my grave... and it's the only way we'd get the stuff." Peter concluded, staring at the house.

"Hit the nail on the head," Tony nodded. "But how _much_ of that I explain is up to you."

Peter furrowed his brow. "So I'd say the rest?"

The philanthropist shook his head. "I'm happy to do all the talking if you don't want to. What I'm saying is that I'll only disclose the bare essentials needed to get the items and whatever else you'd want me to say."

"Why? Because it'd be easier than outright saying the kid they met all those years ago became a murderer?" The mutant muttered, eyes dark.

"No. You deserve to have the option to disclose whatever the hell you want to about your past," Tony replied. "It's not my story to share. They don't _need_ to know anything you don't want them to know. As far as I'm concerned, I'm fine with leaving them with a lot of questions and never answering them if it would make you uncomfortable to divulge that knowledge."

He bit his lip, processing the information. Then, he quietly blew a breath out between his teeth. "...If they still remember me, they... they at least deserve to know a bit more than the basics. Not... not what happened in that time, or my powers, or anything like that. Just... y'know, that I didn't die, and couldn't... be around. I don't really know."

Tony hummed in quiet thought. "Alright, then how about this? I'll only do the exact bare minimum needed to get what we came for unless they show genuine recognition. If they do, I'll explain the basics, and we'll play it by ear after that. If I'm starting to say something you don't want them knowing, or you want me to say something else, just let me know or even interrupt me. How's that sound?"

Peter gave a hesitant nod. "That... that sounds good to me."

"It's alright to be nervous, Peter," Tony assured, before sliding his sunglasses on. "To be honest, I'm not doing so hot myself. But that stuff isn't going to get itself. Are you sure you want to do this?"

He fidgeted, and Peter seriously debated turning back now. But, ultimately, he swallowed and nodded. "Let's get it over with."

With a nod, Tony left the vehicle, dismissing Happy to do his own thing as he did so, and Peter followed shortly behind. The two walked over to the house, and the mutant could hear his and his guardian's heart beats louder in his ears as they stopped in front of the house. There was no turning back now. Tony pressed the doorbell and waited, and the former asset subconsciously held his breath in anticipation.

He heard muffled voices from the other side of the door, and a part of Peter felt a faint twinge of familiarity from the tone. The door swung open, and they were greeted by a thickset Filipino woman. She smiled warmly, though confusion colored her gaze. Upon seeing Tony, she did a double take, before asking, "Oh, uh, Mr. Stark, I wasn't expecting you to actually show up."

Peter raised an eyebrow as he glanced at his guardian, and Tony smirked. "No, that's alright, Mrs. Leeds. I'd doubt the authenticity of a request from someone like me, too."

"Please, call me Reyna!" She chuckled warmly, before stepping away from the door. "Come in. Do either of you want refreshments?"

Both Tony and Peter followed Reyna inside, and Peter was immediately struck by how homely the humble abode was. The walls were a warm orange, and family portraits adorned the walls sporadically. Two worn pale couches lined the walls, across from a television perched atop a TV stand. Three potted flowers sat on the windowsill, with a parted flower curtain allowing the plants to bask in the evening light. An odd feeling crept through his bones that he couldn't quite describe; was it nostalgia, unease, or something else?

 _Longing,_ the quiet voice of Weaver whispered, which caused Peter to pause, frowning. The voice seemed to move closer, and Weaver let out an amused huff. _What, did that dream make you think Eight Legs got rid of me?_

 _A very pleasant nickname,_ another voice rang, that Peter recognized to be the spider's. _I said I would only borrow him for a little while, and I kept my promise._

 _You didn't have to phrase it so creepily,_ Weaver muttered. _All you did was-_

"Kid, you alright?" A solid hand gently grasped his shoulder, which jolted Peter out of the internal conversation. He glanced up at Tony, who had a slightly worried smile on his face. In a whisper, he added, "If you're getting overwhelmed, we can just get this done quickly. I don't want you staying here too long if it'll make you uncomfortable."

Peter's nose scrunched as he tried to piece together what he'd missed while focusing on the internal conversation; Reyna was now sitting on one of the couches, with a hefty, well-tanned man sporting a thick mustache beside her. As he returned to reality, he heard a noise off to the side and turned to find a young man around his age entering the room, with dark yet warm skin and a happy smile adorning his face. He was on the heftier side as well, but seemed to take it in good stride, and he sat next to what Peter could only presume were his parents. Tony stepped forward to gesture him to the other couch, and Peter followed suit.

 _Following orders again?_ The spider asked critically. _Aren't you tired of that at this point?_

 _In this case, it's polite. I think,_ Weaver responded.

Peter's eyes narrowed as he sat down, and he thought back, _Is the running commentary really necessary?_

 _No, but it's fun to do anyways,_ the spider mused.

"You're probably wondering why I reached out to you," Tony began, taking off his sunglasses. "And must be wondering about my young companion here."

"I didn't think you had a kid, Stark," the man mused with a hearty laugh. "Before we get to the discussion, we should do introductions. I'm Jonah! You already met my wife, Reyna, and this is our son, Ned."

"I-It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Stark! I'm a big fan!" Ned gushed, grinning from ear to ear.

A small smile pulled at the corner of Tony's lips as he clasped his hands together. "Feel free to call me Tony; we're here on pleasant terms, after all. This is Peter; he's a bit shy."

 _That's an understatement,_ Weaver muttered.

"Peter?" Reyna mused, head slightly tilted. "Why, we used to know a Peter! Unfortunately, he disappeared 'bout a decade ago. Real tragic, him and his folks were pleasant."

 _Aren't you in for a surprise?_ The spider remarked, amused.

"Well..." Tony paused, gauging Peter's state. Seeing that Peter was nervous, but not outright uncomfortable, he continued, "That's actually what we're here to discuss."

Jonah frowned. "No offense, Tony, but that topic is a bit sensitive for us. We were good friends with the Parkers; May and Ben were good folks, treated us very kindly. Their nephew was awful nice too, even if he was a shy one. What happened to them was terrible. You may be Tony Stark, but we don't gotta talk to you none 'bout that case."

A sinking feeling began tugging at Peter's chest at the mention of his deceased relatives, and his hands instinctively clutched at his pants. His gaze drifted to the floor, and the static that rang passively at the back of his mind buzzed louder.

Noting his charge's change, Tony frowned, and quietly asked, "Do you want to sit this out? You haven't been away from it for very long, I don't want to bring up anything triggering."

The buzzing was loud, enveloping his senses like a weighted blanket. His vision started fading, and his body felt numb. _So numb. Why is it so numb?_

However, he was snapped out of his reverie by a rather distracting shout internally. _WATCH IT!_

Startled back to reality, Peter looked around, furrowing his brows, before his mind connected that the shout came from who he associated as Weaver. Curiously, he responded back in thought, _...Did you do that, Weaver?_

 _Of course I did,_ Weaver huffed, upset. _You weren't breathing and I wasn't just gonna sit back and have you pass out._

 _That probably would've solidified your guardian's worries,_ the spider chimed, mentally pointing out the external situation. _Which you might want to respond to, lest you cause a panic._

Indeed, everyone in the room looked quite concerned at the passage of events. Tony wasn't sure why Peter had suddenly jolted and glanced around the room like he was being watched, before stilling again. A quick cursory glance at the others in the room told the billionaire that the family shared his same worries. Tentatively, he reached a hand out and settled it on the closest hand, frowning when he noticed that the fabric was starting to tear under the mutant's strong grip. "Hey," he whispered, "Let's take a quick breather, why don't we?"

Peter blinked, finally taking in his surroundings since the trigger cropped up, and the worried faces pointed his way. Tony's request registered like molasses, but he got the message regardless and gave a quick nod. With that affirmation, Tony excused them and both made their way into the kitchen, far enough to be out of sight and out of hearing. Peter pressed himself between the fridge and the sink, letting the cold marble beneath his hands ground him back to the present.

Tony was a bit unnerved by his ward's continued silence. He hadn't spoken since they left the car, and while the quiet usually hadn't bothered him priorly (he knew the kid was still adjusting to having the freedom _to_ talk, after all), it was the kid's mannerisms that made him concerned. The billionaire had a sinking feeling he knew what the mutant was experiencing; after the invasion in New York, every little mention of the traumatic event sent him reeling. He couldn't think about nukes or extraterrestrial beings for months after the incident, fearful of the subsequent panic attack. After the mess with Killian, though, Pepper had convinced him to book a therapy appointment and get help dealing with the PTSD. God, he loved that woman; she saw he was struggling and guided him to the help he needed to start coping with those memories. The kid, though, had no one but him and the Avengers to rely on. He wasn't even fifteen, for god's sake, carrying the weight of an untold amount of trauma. Tony knew with full certainty that they still didn't know all of the horrors the former asset endured, even with all the recorded information. It made him wonder how much of that information was accurately recorded, and how much was kept off of the files.

The hero shook his head to get out of his own thoughts, knowing that would be a discussion for another day. The kid needed him _now._ Those what-ifs could wait for another day. Peter was staring at the floor, hands fidgeting, a frown pulling at his features. He looked distracted again by god knows what. Raising a hand, he snapped his fingers a foot away from Peter's face, hoping to catch his charge's attention. Once more, the assassin looked startled, as if he was broken out of a conversation. He'd ask Peter about that later, after they weren't in the Leeds' home. "Earth to Peter, you with me now?"

Peter's shoulders dropped once he realized it was Tony that had snapped his fingers. The loud noise had caught him off-guard, and broke him out of trying to figure out what the hell was going on with his thoughts. It was hard to focus on an external conversation when an internal one kept cropping up, and the former asset had no clue why this new occurrence was happening today of all days. _Think about that later,_ he chided himself, though narrowed his eyes when it was met with an amused huff from Weaver and the spider. "Y-yeah," his voice felt raw and his throat felt scratchy, which added to some of his worries. Clearing his throat in an attempt to make it sturdier, Peter followed with, "Sorry, I don't know what's gotten into me today."

Tony furrowed his brow. "Is it because of the talk with the Leeds?"

The mutant shook his head, concern etched into his features. "No, I don't think so. It's just difficult to concentrate when two conversations are happening at once."

Okay, now the philanthropist was worried. As far as he was aware, there'd only been one active conversation in the house. Was his hearing good enough to pick up on the neighbors or anyone walking down the street, or was it something else? "Two conversations?" Tony asked.

 _To our credit, we could talk and distract you more,_ the spider mused. _If I say so myself, only occasional interjections is benevolent._

The teenager narrowed his eyes at that, and muttered, "Yeah, well, 'occasional interjections' are still distracting."

The kid was... talking to himself? At least, that was Tony's first thought, after a reply like that. The thought that it was definitely more complicated than it seemed followed, and the billionaire found himself agreeing with that notion. Tony wasn't honestly terribly surprised if the kid _did_ have internal discussions. Hell, considering the kid had to stay silent for so many years and masked his true thoughts, the philanthropist was more surprised how sane Peter was. Lord knows he'd do anything to talk his thoughts out if he'd been in his charge's predicament. Dismissing those thoughts for later, Tony rested a hand on Peter's shoulder. "We'll talk about that later," he huffed out a breath before staring out the window, coming to a decision. "Why don't you sit this one out, squirt?"

"What?" Peter asked, tipping his head. He was too caught on the notion of needing to leave to care about the nickname. "Do... do you not need me here?"

Realizing how that could be taken, Tony cursed himself for the wording. "God, no, that's not what I meant at all, kid," He let out a sigh. "You just seem really distracted and overwhelmed, and this isn't gonna be a pleasant conversation. I don't think it'll be good for you to hear about residual pieces of your trauma, even if they're vague."

 _Are we that fragile?_ Weaver asked, tone dark. _That's for us to decide whether we can handle the discussion or not._

 _He does have a point,_ the spider rationalized idly. _It's only been a month since we were removed from that mess._

Peter closed his eyes and let out a breath, before opening them once more and fixing his gaze off to the side. "Oh... sorry for taking that the wrong way," he muttered quietly. Taking the given points into consideration, he swallowed thickly, before nodding. "Yeah... maybe that's for the best."

Tony released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, then gave Peter a worried smile. "Alright. I'll try to be quick, so you're not waiting too long," He then frowned as he glanced back at the living room. "Do you think you'll be fine hanging here? I know your hearing is great, but I don't want you waiting outside. I know you've got your phone on you, but I brought some headphones I've been working on with me just in case. They aren't finished by a long shot, but they should work well enough."

As Peter was handed the headphones, he eyed the rather typical looking accessories with a quizzical eye. "What's so special about these?"

With a knowing smile, the billionaire enthused, "They're a special kind of noise-cancelling headphones. Once I'm done with them they should even be strong enough to combat your enhanced hearing; though they will be adjustable so you can hear outside noise if you need to. Unfortunately, they're not _quite_ to the point where their noise-cancelling is good enough to match your recorded hearing range, but they should help if you listen to music. I was planning on giving these to you when they were done but brought them in case you needed them while we were out."

Peter's eyes widened at the kind gesture, and he stared at them with a small smile. "Thank you," he said softly, plugging them into his phone.

Tony grinned warmly and barely resisted the temptation to ruffle his ward's hair. "No problem, kid. I'll come get you when I'm done." With that, his guardian walked back out of the kitchen and reassured the Leeds that yes, he was fine, and no, he wouldn't be joining them for the rest of the discussion.

Not wanting to eavesdrop more than he had to, the former asset put the headphones in and was immediately taken aback by how much the headphones already blocked out. While he could still hear the discussion in the other room, it was reduced to indiscernible mumbles. Peter noted with interest that it also tuned out the whirring of the air conditioning and the quiet hum of the plugged-in devices around the house. The lack of stimuli was... relieving for once. He'd just accepted the fact long ago that he'd always be bothered by the small things no one else seemed to hear. He couldn't help but wonder if this was what normal, unenhanced hearing would be like.

 _Probably not,_ Weaver mused, louder than usual. He seemed to notice, it, too, for that remark was followed with, _Huh, I guess without all the background noise you can hear us better. Interesting._

 _Something that makes it easier for you to notice us, huh?_ The spider added, intrigued. _Pleasant; that means you can't ignore us nearly as well!_

Peter let out a sigh as he stared at the ceiling. Great, it seemed he couldn't escape _this_ conversation with the headphones. Deciding to prove the spider wrong, he pulled up what Wanda had pointed out the other day to be a music app and grabbed one of the playlists she'd made for him. He pressed Shuffle and closed his eyes, letting the music drown out his thoughts and provide a small break from the worries of the present.

* * *

The Leeds seemed to be taken back after Tony's initial explanation. True to his word, he'd only given the basics; that Peter Benjamin Parker was, in fact, not dead, but had been in captivity the last ten and a half years. He omitted the unnecessary details; the identity of his captors, the lengths they went in torturing the mutant, the reason he was targeted, the body count attached to his charge sitting in the kitchen- anything that would lead to uncomfortable questions and probing.

To the credit of the family, they had kept their questions to a mindful minimum, mostly due to his silence being answer enough for some of the worse questions. The billionaire felt awful for the lies of omission, but letting them know the bottom line was already a burden to carry in and of itself. He wasn't sure how well the somewhat normal family would take the full truth; that the kid they'd met all those years ago had witnessed atrocities no one should've been subject to, and had taken the lives of others to stay alive. Watching their body language and expressions told the hero all he needed to know about how they were all taking this information.

Jonah had long since straightened from his priorly relaxed position. He was hunched forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together, a deep frown on his face. The look in his eyes was something Tony personally empathized with; the look of resentment and bitterness at such a young soul's unwarranted torment, mixed with the fires of fatherly protective instincts and the yearning for justice. On the occasion he would give his son a side glance, gauging his reaction and further solidifying to Tony that the real estate agent was pondering on what would've happened had that been his _own_ son that was taken and not Peter.

Reyna's smile had disappeared prior to the conversation starting in earnest; had been gone since he and Peter went to the kitchen and the young man stayed behind. But the look on her face now was almost haunting. The worry lines creasing the head baker had deepened, and she was pressed against the back of the couch for support, one hand squeezing her son's and the other clenched in her lap. It wouldn't take a genius to see that the news was a mother's worst nightmare and that Reyna Leeds was absolutely horrified anyone was cruel enough to harm a child in such a way. While Tony was in no way involved with HYDRA, and fought villains for a living, he found himself wanting to stay on the Filipino woman's good side. The rage that burned behind her dark gaze, dedicated entirely to the organization she wasn't even aware of, was daunting to the hero. Secretly, he wondered how terrifying it would've been for Ross to feel the wrath of this mother, and came to the conclusion that it would've been glorious to witness.

Tony was honestly impressed with how well Ned was holding up. He would've thought the fifteen year old would've long since backed out of the conversation, but he hadn't once made to leave. Quite the opposite; the teenager was seated firmly, returning his mother's grasp and gave his full undivided attention to the superhero. No longer was he starry-eyed at the appearance of the billionaire- rather, he had listened to the explanation with a somber expression, not even voicing a question of his own. On more than one occasion, the philanthropist saw Ned glance over to the kitchen with a concerned look, almost as if he felt the need to enter the kitchen and give his ward some comfort.

In all honesty, the hero was astounded that the Leeds were taking the information so well; or at least as well as one _could_ take such devastating news. Once he had wrapped up the summary, he let out a breath. "So... yeah, that's why we came to collect the Parker memoirs."

There was silence following his conclusion while the family mulled the discussion over. Reyna was the first to break the silence, and she fixed her gaze on the billionaire, expression unreadable. "So you're Peter's new guardian, correct?" Tony opened his mouth to answer, but Reyna continued, "No offense, Tony, but are you sure you're qualified to raise a child; to raise _this_ child?"

Tony closed his mouth, taken back by the question. However, he expected it would've come up at some point, given his messy celebrity history. "I know that I wasn't the most responsible person in the past. To be frank, I was a mess. I still _am_ a mess, if I'm being honest with you," He threaded his fingers together, before releasing a sigh. The philanthropist looked Reyna dead in the eyes and concluded, "However, that kid... he's had so much shit thrown his way. When I first met him, he didn't trust anyone, refused to speak, and kept running away. But, now... he trusts me enough that he's let me make him new prosthetics. He no longer tenses when I'm nearby, and actually instigates conversations when he's curious. In the month and a half since I met him, he's grown _so_ much, and while I'm no father... I'm so damn proud of that kid for everything he does. It hasn't been that long, and yet... I don't want to think about what life would've been like had I not had the pleasure of meeting that young man. It's going to be a long road to recovery- hell, there are aspects that he'll likely never recover from- but I want to be there through it all, every step of the way, so long as he wants me to be. My father... he wasn't exactly the shining example of fatherhood. Actually, Howard was a terrible father. I want to break that cycle and be the best damn guardian to that boy I can possibly be. God knows he deserves the world after all he's been through... and I'm willing to do what I can to give him that."

The room fell silent once more, though there was an approving nod from Jonah and a smile from Ned. After a few moments, Reyna nodded as well, her neutral expression melting into a tired smile. "I'm glad I can trust you with his livelihood then, Tony."

"So..." Jonah began, contemplation marring his features. "What are your plans for Peter's future, if you don't mind me asking? His education must be in shambles, as well as his socialization."

"Well... to be honest with you, I didn't want to make too many plans. I'm not sure how comfortable Peter will be with how society functions, nor how long it will take for him to be comfortable enough to integrate into it once more. I don't want to make that decision for him, nor do I want to rush him. However, I did have a few things in mind, depending on how quickly he adjusts," Tony explained, before finishing, "Formal schooling is out of the question at the moment; he doesn't do well with crowds, and I'm equally unsure how well he would take being among so many people his age. About two weeks ago, Pepper and I sat down with him and figured out what he did and didn't know educationally. I think the current working plan is that us Avengers will teach him the subjects he needs to learn in the hopes that one day he'll be caught up in regards to educational level. As for socialization... that one's going to be going slower. He spent a lot of time in an environment where there was either limited interaction, or the interaction would be harmful. He does alright around a group of our size, but it took a few weeks for him to get used to us. I definitely think he should have more people his age in his support system, but it's not going to be an easy process, getting him acclimated to normal interactions."

Jonah hummed in agreement, and Ned chimed in, "I think I could help with that." When everyone turned to look at him, Ned rubbed his neck sheepishly and continued, "I know enough that it wouldn't be entirely foreign, and I'm not that much older than he is. When we were younger, I hung out with him all the time. While it's going to be different now, I'm at least not a complete stranger. It sounds like he could really use someone his age to gain a sense of normalcy. Oh, and MJ! MJ, a friend of mine, is also really chill. She's laid back and low energy; she'd be a good influence on him."

Tony pondered the suggestion, before smiling. "Ned, right? I like your style. You're a good kid."

Ned grinned ear to ear at the compliment from his hero. "T-thank you, Mr. Stark! I-It's the least I could do, really. Ah, uh, would you be fine if I invited MJ into this? I know I didn't ask, but-"

The billionaire cut him off with a polite raise of his hand, amused by the change in tone. "Yeah, I'll give her a try. I'll give you my personal number; just let me know a good time to meet MJ and we'll see if Peter likes her."

Ned was pretty much bouncing in place at the notion that he, a normal teenager, was getting the personal number of _the_ Tony Stark. Excitedly, he pulled his phone out and handed it to the philanthropist, who promptly put in his contact information. "This is great! Oh man, I can't wait to tell MJ! I should go tell her now!" He got off of the couch and went to make his way to his room, when he paused by the kitchen, a concerned look interrupting the prior excitement. He turned back to the adults, then said, "I'm gonna go check on him and make sure he's okay. If I wanna be his friend, I wanna make sure I make a good impression!" With that, the teenager disappeared into the kitchen, pocketing his phone.

Tony let out an amused huff. "You guys have a good kid."

Reyna and Jonah shared a knowing look, and with pride in their eyes, they both said, "We know."

* * *

Peter had his eyes closed, though he was far from being asleep. His music had long since stopped working its magic of drowning out his thoughts, and was instead intensifying them when a few songs that caught his interest played. He couldn't help but wonder what experiences some of the songwriters had gone through that compelled them to make such lyrics, and pondering on it led him to wonder how his _own_ experiences would sound portrayed in the same fashion. Would he even _want_ to sing about such events? Would it sound good out of his own mind, or would it be better kept under lock and key? Was he even _capable_ of singing after years of neglecting his vocal cords?

 _You don't usually wax existential,_ Weaver pointed out, amused.

 _Why would you want to sing anyways?_ The spider asked, confused. _It's just fancy vibrations, which are just as achievable through spinning webs._

"I don't know, it just... sounded interesting," Peter muttered, gaze dropping to his lap. "Writing out what you went through and turning it into something enjoyable sounds like a far more productive use of my experiences than overthinking them."

"Yeah, that sounds neat!" A new voice interjected, and Peter had to stick himself to the ground to keep from leaping into the air. Eyes wide, his gaze fixed on Ned as he entered the kitchen, the other teenager looking sheepish. "Oh, I'm sorry, I would've let you know louder if I knew you were listening to music! Did I, uh, interrupt something?"

 _Yeah, our conversation, outsider,_ Weaver huffed, annoyed. _Can't you respect that we're finally getting the chance to talk to Peter? Jeez._

Ignoring that, Peter slid the headphones out and winced at the sudden return of his normal hearing level. "Ah, n-no, you're fine."

Ned gave a nod to that, though that sunny countenance the former asset had spotted when the other teenager had first entered the living room didn't return. He made his way over and stuck out his right hand for a handshake. "I don't think I got to introduce myself to you! I mean, I know you know I'm Ned, and I know you're Peter, but it just doesn't feel genuine until we shake on it!"

Peter stared at the hand with suspicion, raising an eyebrow. "Shake... on it?"

Ned tilted his head curiously, before realizing what the issue was. "Oh, right! You wouldn't know, huh. This is called a handshake; it's what people do when they greet each other."

Peter shook his head, a small amused smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "I know what a handshake is, I just didn't know the expression," he stood, before frowning at the offered hand and giving his own right hand a cursory glance. Pursing his lips, he glanced to the side and went in for the handshake. "...Sorry if my hand is cold."

As they shook, Ned took note of how cold Peter's hand was, before remembering the mention of prosthetics. With a gasp, he asked, "Oh, is that your metal hand? Dude, that's so cool! Can I see it?"

 _He wasn't... put off by it?_ Weaver asked, perplexed.

Taken back by the positive reception, and stuck in an awkward spot, he carefully peeled off the glove and rolled up his sleeve to the elbow, revealing half of his prosthetic arm. Ned was immediately blown away by the design, and grinned from ear to ear. "Oh, man, that's awesome! What can it do?"

 _Show him webs!_ The spider enthused suddenly, eager to have the opportunity to fulfill its web-spinning fantasies.

 _Uh, no, let's not,_ Weaver growled. _That just leads to more questions._

Furrowing his brow, Peter mulled over what features the arm _did_ have that wouldn't be bad to show. With a hesitant nod, he grabbed the wrist and began to twist it, pressing the hidden buttons on each side to detach it from the inner wiring. It came off quietly, and Peter held the hand out to Ned as if it were a normal gift. "I can, uh, detach each jointed part of my prosthetics. I... I can do it to the fingers, elbow, and shoulder too, but it's easier to do it at the wrist."

Ned inspected the technology like it was a gift sent from heaven, admiring the intricate detailing up close. He wasn't aware that there were small web patterns etched into the silver, dark gray, gold, and dark blue metal, nor would he have noticed the grooved gripping pads embedded along the inside of the fingers and palm. The teenager silently wondered why the hand would _need_ gripping pads, after an experimental press of his own hand against the metal one proved it stuck pretty well. Noting Peter's expression, though, he decided not to push it, and returned the hand to its rightful owner. As Peter pressed the hand back into place, Ned whispered, "Oh, that's so cool."

Peter stared at it as it clicked into place, and muttered, "You... really think so?"

Ned nodded eagerly. "Yeah! I, uh... I'd let you see something cool of mine too, but I don't really got much. Oh, but I could tell you about some of the school projects I'm working on instead! I don't have any of them on me, they're all at Midtown, but still!"

Peter tilted his head. "School projects? Midtown...?"

Ned gasped. "Oh yeah, you wouldn't know those either! Let me tell you about them!"

 _I wonder how long this is going to take,_ Weaver remarked with an amused huff.

* * *

It was around 8:30 PM by the time Peter and Tony left the Leeds' home. The evening had been... interesting, if Peter said so himself. He quickly found out Ned was quite the chatterbox; he'd gone on a long tangent about his personal life, from how many Lego sets he had (a topic Ned seemed particularly fond of, and promised to show Peter more of at a later date, implying he still wanted to hang out with him even though he was a _freak, monster, killer-_ ) to what school life was like (from what Peter could tell, it was a mix of torture and fun, which were two words that absolutely did _not_ belong together in his vocabulary. He later discovered that it actually wasn't that bad, just that Ned had exaggerated the environment. He was supposed to despise something called 'homework', which didn't sound too sinister to him, but he didn't know any better). They'd stayed long enough that they'd been invited to join in on their dinner of Lechón, and talked all throughout the lengthy dinner. While Peter didn't contribute much to the discussion (mostly due to being distracted by his _inner_ conversation), it still felt... funny. Not bad, just... unfamiliar. He'd have to ask Tony about it later.

The drive back was a bit quieter for the first few minutes, with Peter staring out the window and Tony keeping an eye on the road. After a few more beats, however, Tony remarked, "Y'know, kid, I'm proud of you."

Stirred from his thoughts, Peter stared at his guardian with a frown. "For... what?"

"Doing so well around the Leeds today," He remarked, a soft smile on his face. "I was worried you wouldn't want to have anything to do with them, after everything was said and done."

Peter cast his gaze back to the back seat, where the camera, the suitcase, and the vinyls were resting comfortably. With a quiet mumble, he returned his gaze to the window and remarked, "I mean, I wanted the items. It was the least I could do."

Tony let out an amused huff. "I saw how you were getting along with Ned. These eyes may be old, but they're not blind," He gave Peter a proud smile. "I'm glad you were comfortable around them, they're good folks."

 _Anything's better than those assholes that took us,_ Weaver muttered darkly.

 _They were quite amusing,_ the spider agreed. _And certainly non-threatening._

"Why the hell would they be threatening?" Peter muttered, frowning out the window.

The smile slowly left Tony's face, once more replaced with concern. "Is that... 'second conversation' happening again?"

Peter stirred from where he was leaning against the window, head tilted slightly. "Hmm? Oh, uh... I guess?"

Tony gave a nod and let the silence settle for a moment, before continuing, "How long has it been happening?"

The mutant gave a non-committal shrug, refusing to stare at his guardian. "I guess... since we went to the Leeds? Well... unless you count the weird dream I had when I woke up this morning... or the occasional comments the last few weeks."

Furrowing his brow, the philanthropist remarked, "Are they just... you talking to yourself, or something else?"

With a frown, Peter picked at his prosthetic. "I... think the latter? The thoughts definitely aren't _mine,_ but they sometimes line up with what I'm thinking..." Shifting, his gaze dropped to his lap. "The voices _sound_ different from mine, a-and I think I can feel a different subset of emotions attached with those remarks, too. They've been talking a lot today; before it was just the one, so it was, y'know... kind of easy to just assume it was me? But now I'm... not so sure."

Tony cast a glance at his charge, concerned. "Do you think it's any cause for concern?" To be frank, the billionaire hadn't really heard any of the other heroes talking about different voices in their head, at least to the degree that Peter was mentioning. The fact that it had been going on for the last few weeks told Tony it wasn't just a random occurrence, and with the way it was described, it didn't sound like anything he knew of. Maybe he'd have to see about contacting Cho again, see about her input.

 _Aw, we're not that bad,_ the spider pouted. _We're a blast to have around!_

 _You'd be more enjoyable to be around if you weren't so intimidating while we were in the Mind Prison,_ Weaver muttered, exasperated. _It was much nicer in here without your input._

Peter narrowed his eyes at the conversation, then itched at the back of his neck. "I... don't know? I mean-"

His train of thought was cut off by the sudden zinging of his spider sense, and he immediately fell silent as his gaze stared out the window, body tense. It wasn't necessarily a warning of _danger nearby_ that the mutant was typically used to, but the sensation wasn't unfamiliar, either. It wasn't one he had priorly felt a lot of, at least before he'd moved to the Compound. After that, the sensation became far more normal; it was magic, somewhere nearby. The thing that alerted him about it was just how _strong_ the magic presence was. It felt vaguely familiar to Wanda's brand of magic, but the feeling felt more in-line with the vibe Vision's stone gave off. The sensation got stronger, until, up ahead, he spotted an odd-looking building.

Noting his ward's sudden cut-off and apprehension, he asked, "Is it danger?"

The former asset shook his head, but asked, "Could you stop in front of that building?"

Tony frowned but did as he was asked, pulling to a stop in front of a rather large building. It didn't look too out of place compared to the buildings next to it, aside from the occasional fancy lining. What caught his eye, however, was the patterned window at the top of the building. He wasn't sure where he'd seen the symbol before, but something about it felt familiar; perhaps it was a design he'd seen in another country? No longer driving, his gaze fixed on Peter, and he spotted the tell-tale signs that the kid's spider sense had gone off. "Do we need to call in the others?"

Peter shook his head. "You know that weird stone that Vision has on his head?"

Now the billionaire was confused. "You mean the Mind Stone? Yeah, I know it," he leaned closer to the assassin to get a better view of the building. "You mentioned being able to sense magic; are you getting the same feeling now?"

The mutant nodded. "Identical to the Mind Stone, but... not quite the same. It feels a bit different," he frowned, gaze latched onto the building. "That's not the only magical presence in that building, but it's the strongest."

Tony watched with confusion as Peter unbuckled then stepped out of the car. Noting this, Tony quickly unbuckled and got out himself. "Where you going, kid?"

Ignoring the question, Peter walked up to the door. The magical sensation was almost overwhelming with how much the building gave off, and he found himself wincing as he stood on the doorstep thanks to the different mixing presences. Something about the strongest presence, the one most like the Mind Stone, called out to him. He wasn't sure what it was about the place, but it seemed... like it wanted him there.

 _That's kind of freaky,_ Weaver chimed, concerned. _Why are stones liking us? More accurately, why is that a_ thing? _That seems incredibly weird._

 _It seems friendly,_ the spider remarked curiously. _Almost like it knows we can sense it and wants to sense us, too._

Before he could truly think about what he was doing, Peter knocked on the door, and only realized after the deed was already done that it may not be the smartest decision. He took a step back, thinking about retreating, when the door swung open. "What do you want?" A cold, clipped voice asked, unamused.

The owner of the voice was a tall, slender Caucasian with a goatee that could rival Tony's and streaks of white along the sides of his hair that broke up the darker color. He wore a dark blue, brown, and gold outfit that looked far too fancy for New York, and adorning his shoulders was a red cloak. He had a necklace around his neck that was in the pattern of an eye and a deep bronze-like gold in color. The man, the cloak, and the necklace gave off a magic presence that made Peter's eyes twitch, and he took another step back from being so close to such a strong sensation when he wasn't prepared. His eyes latched onto the necklace, and he clocked that the necklace was what was giving off that similar vibe the Mind Stone had.

Peter had stilled, unsure of what to do. Luckily for him, Tony had been close behind and clasped his hands on the mutant's shoulders, helping to ground his charge. "Sorry about that, sir," he gauged the reaction on the assassin's face to mean that this guy was more than he first looked, and decided caution would be a better approach over his usual charismatic and often times snarky usual method. "He's a curious kid. Don't mind him any."

Stephen's eyes narrowed at the two strangers at his doorstep. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the man was Tony Stark (lord knows the media never got enough of the billionaire), but what _did_ take a bit more thought was wondering why the superhero was with a child. The Sorcerer Supreme was about to respond when he began to actually give the kid more than a once over. His trained eyes easily spotted the scars that littered the young man's face like a road map, and he frowned as the offending marks continued past his unkempt hairline and down past his chin. As a normal person, that amount of scar tissue would be concerning; but the sorcerer was a former doctor, who knew what kind of ramifications such damage could cause to an individual. How on earth such a young child had so much battle damage was beyond him. To further add to his concerns, the teenager seemed vaguely familiar, and Stephen couldn't quite remember why. Considering his memory was fantastic, that was worrying.

He was going to give them the usual treatment that he gave most hapless citizens who thought the Sanctum was a tourist attraction and send them away post-haste, but... something about the pair made him hesitate. The entire thing felt odd; a well-known and renowned superhero, driving around with a badly scarred teenager that kept looking at the Eye of Agamotto discreetly. So, instead, he remarked, "Ah... Tony Stark. I wasn't expecting to find your kind around here."

Tony was... unsure how to take that. It sounded like an insult, but the hesitance with which the man spoke caught the philanthropist's attention more. He seemed caught off-guard by Peter, which, considering how scarred the kid's face and neck was, wasn't much of a shock. All he really cared about at the moment was making sure the teenager didn't cause the guy that looked like a wizard any trouble. "It's always great to meet a fan," he responded with clipped sarcasm, "But the kid and I are gonna be on our way now."

Stephen quirked a brow. This wasn't the typical snark Tony Stark was renowned for, and, frankly, what he was expecting. It must've been the kid that mitigated the hero's usual pompous rhetoric. _He seems protective of the child,_ the doctor noted, taking in the billionaire's mannerisms. _I wonder what that's about?_

As the two began to walk away, the Sorcerer Supreme watched them leave, curiosity piqued. The pair drove off, and Stephen closed the door, but he couldn't help but wonder what that encounter was about. They certainly weren't the typical tourists that liked to pester the Sanctum; Tony Stark had been living in New York most of his life, so he'd have no reason to come here. It seemed the kid had been the one to approach, for a reason the genius lacked context for.

Wong was waiting for him when he returned to the library, and his companion remarked, "You're usually annoyed when a tourist knocks on our doors."

"It wasn't a tourist," Stephen replied as the cloak moved off of his shoulder, hovering nearby. "It was Tony Stark and a young teenage male I've never seen the hero fraternizing with before."

"Ah, and here I thought Tony Stark hated the younger generations," Wong chimed wryly, continuing to peruse his book. "What did Stark want?"

"That's the curious thing. It was the kid who had knocked," He sat with a sigh, careful of where his hands were so he didn't hit them against the table. "Something about that kid was off, Wong."

"Off? How so?" The sorcerer asked idly, turning the page.

"The kid's face and neck were covered in about 74% scar tissue, an alarming number of which were large enough to be lethal. His sleep schedule must be atrocious from the depth of his periorbital edema, and he kept staring at the Eye of Agamotto as if he knew it was more than just a frivolous decoration," Strange mused. Something about the interaction rubbed him the wrong way. "On top of that, something about the young man felt familiar, yet I cannot pinpoint why."

Wong paused his reading, staring at the pages as he processed that information. "Do you think we should keep an eye out for the kid, then?"

Stephen considered the notion, cupping the Time Stone's protective casing in a shaky palm. Clasping his twitching fingers around the metal, he gave a succinct nod. "I think that would be the wisest course of action, for now; at least until we learn more."

"We wouldn't want him being a preventable threat, after all," Wong joked idly.

The doctor paused at that remark, furrowing his brow. "Yeah," his grip tightened around the Eye of Agamotto. "We wouldn't."


	17. Headaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter talks to himself; or at least that's what he thinks.

When they got back to the Compound, it was quiet; as typical for the building at 10 PM. This was one of Peter's favorite times to be around, thanks to the lack of a crowd. Most of the workers would end their shifts, with only the overnight personnel and the in-house residents sticking around the area. It made it a lot less awkward to wander the vacant hallways, mulling over his thoughts.

Tony had already retired for the night after helping move the suitcase, camera, and vinyls to his room, where they rested on his desk beside the untouched tapes and the family album, flower long removed from the pages since it had started wilting. Afterwards the mutant had taken to his usual route of pacing the hallways to ease his troubles and organize his mind. This time, however, his thoughts were more active than they tended to be, thanks to the persistent voices that decided to stick around.

_I wonder what's on the tapes?_ Weaver asked as Peter passed by the front desk on light feet once more. _They contain Richard's and Mary's research, which we don't really know much of._

_They were working with SHIELD; it was probably something to do with secret agent crap,_ the spider mused.

Peter frowned. "While that was their _main_ job, I don't really know what SHIELD would've had them researching," His gaze traveled along the lined walls, catching sight of framed portraits that ranged from nature to familial. Pausing by one of the framed pictures that contained the loved ones of a worker that had been working there since the Compound opened, he added, "Besides, we've already got _enough_ to think about at the moment to worry about that."

_Like what?_ The spider asked.

The teen narrowed his eyes, gesturing widely with his arms. "Uh, isn't it obvious? _This._ Why the crap these internal conversations keep happening when they hardly happened before."

_Isn't the answer obvious?_ Weaver asked, exasperated. _These aren't exactly a new occurrence; you talked to yourself all the time before we came across the Avengers._

"That's not what I meant," Peter huffed, moving into the living areas. "Yes, I talked to myself a lot before- not that I had any _other_ way of expressing myself- but it was just... _me._ Not... whatever _this_ is."

_That's not correct,_ the spider interjected matter-of-factly. _We were there too, you just didn't hear us for_ us, _and mistook our input for your own._

The former asset paused in front of his door with a curious frown, before twisting the doorknob and entering the room. He caught sight of the memoirs and glanced away. "Okay, but... why am I hearing you different _now,_ then, if I couldn't before?"

There was a slight pause while Peter sat down on the bed, before Weaver responded, _Because we've been separated enough from the trauma that you're beginning to realize what thoughts do and don't belong to you, if I had to guess._

Peter let out a huff as he flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "Oh, grand, that doesn't make me sound crazy at all," he muttered dryly.

_Why would it be crazy?_ The spider asked curiously. _You've been talking to us for years._

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Have _you_ met anyone else that talks to themselves?"

_We only meet the people you do, so have_ you _met anyone like that?_ Weaver shot back.

"...When did you get so snarky?" The mutant asked.

_I've always been cynical, in case you've forgotten,_ replied Weaver.

Letting out a sigh, Peter pressed his palms to his eyes. "Is there anything _else_ you guys want to contribute, since you guys are so keen on pestering me?"

_Yes, actually,_ the spider added. _Though it requires you joining us inside._

"'Joining us inside'? What does that mean?" Peter asked, furrowing his brows.

_Well, we can't exactly talk to you face to face when you're out there, can we?_ Weaver remarked, mildly annoyed. _Come on, don't pretend you don't know where we're talking about. The Mind Prison, duh; where else would we talk?_

"Well... out loud, like we are now?" The assassin asked, confused.

_Sometimes your lack of logic amazes me,_ Weaver sighed. _Just close your eyes._

Rolling his eyes, Peter complied, tucking himself under the weighted blanket. He wasn't quite sure _why_ he was following their requests, but he had no reason _not_ to. It wasn't like he was going to sleep well, anyways. With that thought, he closed his eyes.

* * *

_The familiar dark room wasn't much of a surprise for Peter to see, if he was fairly honest. What_ was _more surprising to the mutant was that it wasn't as dark as it had once been, and not nearly as foggy. Instead of a single spotlight and a few stray crates, there were five chairs sitting in a circle, and a general glow surrounded the furniture from a spot he couldn't quite pinpoint. It didn't feel quite as unsettling, and instead felt a bit more comforting, as if coming to the place on purpose made it nicer to be around._

_One of the chairs was already occupied by a rather impatient looking Weaver. His sole arm was resting on his lap, holding a new knife that his fingers fidgeted with. A steady puddle of dark purple blood pooled down the chair and onto the ground from the open wounds, though seemingly evaporated swiftly afterwards, leaving no lasting stains. Since his eyes had no pupils, it was difficult to tell where the former mask was looking, as his head was angled straight ahead._

_On the other side stood the spider, standing as tall as ever. The brown arachnid had a large scar running across its subset of right eyes, as well as a few circling its legs and thorax. It was clearly too large for the chairs and simply moved two of them to the side so it was in-line with the seats, before crouching into what Peter could only assume was a comfortable position. The spider didn't look nearly as intimidating as it had the night before, which Peter couldn't help but think was because he had_ met _the spider and wasn't caught off-guard by its presence._

_They both looked at him as he appeared, and gestured for him to take one of the seats. Hesitantly, he took the seat to Weaver's left, before clearing his throat. "So, uh, I'm here now. What'd you guys want to talk about?"_

_Weaver turned his gaze to the spider and narrowed his eyes. "Maybe we should start with that thing you pulled me to the side for earlier?" His words dripped venom, and he pointed his knife at the large arachnid accusingly. "Because the theatrics weren't necessary for all_ that _crap."_

_The arachnid rolled its dark eyes. "I'm rusty, give me a break._ You _try being hidden away for nine years and see if your social skills are impeccable."_

_Peter furrowed his brows. "You were... hidden away for nine years? What's_ that _mean?"_

_The spider seemed to pause at that, before remarking, "When we were..._ younger, _I was a lot more active." It seemed to be reminiscing, as its tone became wistful. "That was back before our circumstance became unfavorable. I tried to stick around during the Early Years; I was even brought_ forward _on the occasion, but after the situation became worse, and the need to comply became more necessary... I knew I couldn't be around without jeopardizing our safety. So I stepped back and hid until it was safe. It just, unfortunately, took longer than anticipated for that to occur."_

_The mutant absorbed the words, getting more confused. Picking at his right arm, he asked, "So you were... like_ this _for years? I..." His train of thought paused as he perused his memories, and his eyes widened in realization as he realized that he had, long ago, imagined seeing a spider in his thoughts. "I just... thought you were an imaginary friend. Have I... been seeing you guys all this time and just not realizing it?"_

_Weaver gave a nod to that, his grip tightening around the knife. "In my case, you didn't quite see me like_ this, _at least not for a while. You just saw me as a disembodied version of yourself that you'd talk to in an attempt to separate yourself from the acts that were committed under my identity."_

_Peter swallowed thickly. "So... how did you 'hide away', spider?"_

_The spider seemed to perk up at that. "Araneae."_

_The former asset frowned. "What?"_

_"My name is Araneae," The spider reiterated. "Sorry, it just felt weird that you were calling me by that... term." The last word was said with spite, as if the concept was undesirable._

_"Oh... sorry about that, Araneae," Peter blinked, wondering why the thought to ask what their name was hadn't crossed his mind. "Should I... re-ask my question?"  
_

_Araneae shook its head. "No, you're alright," It seemed to ponder what to say, before letting out an unsatisfied chitter. "I'm not quite sure how to describe it, if I'm being honest. I just knew sticking around wouldn't be beneficial, and..." It raised a leg and gestured to the surrounding darkness and fog. "...that darkness suddenly called out to me. When I entered it, I got separated from the others, and realized that my voice was isolated. It was like going further into that twilight closed me off from everyone else."_

_The mutant frowned at that, his gaze sweeping over the three unoccupied chairs. "The... others? Everyone else?" He stared into the surrounding darkness, trying to see if he could spot anything amiss. "There's_ more _of us?"_

_"Apparently," Weaver muttered crossly. "That's what Eight Legs over there pulled me to the side for; or at least_ one _of the things. Unfortunately, he wouldn't spill how many 'other's there were, or who they were. Seeing how many chairs Araneae set up, though, I'm guessing three."_

_Araneae's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't my place to out them when they weren't ready," the spider raised its head to stare to the left. "...Though it looks like they're ready, now."_

_Three figures were slowly making their way out of the surrounding darkness and towards the group. As they came closer, their features became more defined, and Peter was surprised to see that two of them were girls. The tallest of them Peter almost could've mistaken for a guy, thanks to her mostly cropped black hair and formal business attire. The next in size looked rather similar to himself when he was younger, minus the scarring and with prominent freckles. The shortest was a pale transparent blue, and her features seemed to fade in and out, as if staying tangible was difficult._

_As they made their way over, they each took a seat. As the taller girl sat next to where Araneae rested, her green gaze swept over Peter and Weaver with thinly veiled distrust. She adjusted the dark green bow tucked under the black dress shirt before commenting, "I see we're a bit late to the party... or maybe you guys are just early."_

_The smallest boy, who looked to be about eight, grinned brightly as he sat between Weaver and the tall girl. "We're here now though! Nice to meet you all!"_

_The shortest girl took her seat beside Peter and Araneae, and gave them a shy smile. Her hands were folded in her lap, mostly hidden under the long gray sweater she wore underneath a furred coat. Her silence was a bit unnerving, but as she made no comment to contribute, all Peter could ask was, "And you guys are...?"_

_Rolling her eyes, the tall girl remarked, "Rose. It's the name I much_ rather _prefer than who I'm supposed to emulate."_

_Weaver frowned. "That's very similar to Ross."_

_Rose narrowed her eyes at Weaver. "_ _Wow,_ _aren't_ you _a smart one?" She folded her arms, clearly annoyed at the comparison. "I'm nothing like that deplorable bastard, so I'd appreciate it if you stayed away from associating me with his legacy, thank you very much."_

_Oblivious to the tension between Rose and Weaver, the young boy piped up, "I'm Ben! And you're Peter, Weaver, Rose, Araneae, and Mayflower!"_

_Peter blinked, furrowing his brow. "I'm sorry... you're named_ Ben? _And... she's 'May'flower?" He redirected the latter part at the girl beside him, who simply gave him a quiet nod in response._

_Ben kicked his feet, the light-up sneakers blinking every time they hit the ground. The jacket he wore drenched his thin frame and spilled out past his hands and down to his knees, casting shadow on the simple white shirt and blue rolled-up jeans he had on. "Yeah, that's right!" His head tilted curiously, the smile wavering. "Is there something wrong with that?"_

_"Considering the former is the name of our dead uncle, and the latter is close to our dead aunt, yes." Weaver scoffed._

_"Those were the names they chose," Araneae intervened. "Besides, the rest of our names are pretty attached to traumatic beats anyways; if you're going to question their names, question the rest of ours, too."_

_"Fair point," Peter sighed, before glancing them all over again. "So... let me get this straight. This entire time you've all been here and I never realized it, and... you're out now because it's 'safe' according to Araneae's standards?"_

_Rose nodded. "Well, not all of us have been here for the same length of time, but we've been here for years," She gestured to Ben. "For example; he's been here for almost ten and a half years, but hid shortly after... Mayflower, on the other hand, came in six years and eight months ago. I've been here for just under nine years."_

_Weaver let out a huff, clearly upset to find that only one of the others had joined after he had. "Why do most of you guys look different than Peter, then?"_

_Araneae rolled its eyes. "We're not all a Peter wannabe, mask," The spider adjusted so that its two forelegs were able to gesture around the circle. "After all the crap_ they _did to our mind, did you really expect there to be no residual after-effects?"_

_Peter furrowed his brow, picking at his right arm. "What exactly are you implying?"_

_"We spent ten and a half years under a life-threatening, abusive, hostile environment. While they did a fair amount of damage to our body, they did worse to our mind," To emphasize its point, it touched a leg to its head. "The chips. The programming and protocols. The times they cut open our skull just to see how it functioned. The attempts at brainwashing and amnesia they tried to instill. The years upon years of forced silence, murder, and torture." Araneae fixed his gaze on Peter. "It's frankly surprising we're remotely sane. I suppose this was just... how our brain decided to cope."_

_Silence fell over the group as Araneae concluded its message as they all pondered the ramifications of continued abuse throughout childhood. Mayflower took it as her opportunity to express herself, hesitantly tapping, "All of that to say that we're a part of this together; we might as well cooperate."_

_Weaver raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't that have been easier to say?"_

_"Mayflower's mute," Rose replied curtly. "Whether that's selective or genuine I don't actually know; she's only talked to me through tapping or ASL."_

_Peter let out a breath, before cupping his head in his palms. "Anything else I should know out of this... new development?"_

_"Well... we haven't really tested the limits of this condition, have we?" Araneae mused. "You're out front pretty much constantly, but it makes me wonder... could the_ rest _of us switch out with you?"_

_Weaver's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You're on about this again?" He growled, before realizing he hadn't brought up the context. "After saying there were others, Araneae asked the same thing to me and wanted to see if I'd help them out with it. I refused, of course. I don't trust anyone but you handling that crap outside, after all."_

_"That's... an interesting proposition, though," Peter said, staring at his hands as he folded them in his lap. "How far_ does _this go? I mean, earlier, Weaver and Araneae wouldn't shut up and it became distracting, which meant I could hear whatever you guys said in the Mind Prison while conscious. Would it be possible to purposefully stay here and let one of you guys see about trying to move our body?"_

_"The only way to find out would be to try it," Rose concluded. "It also makes me wonder if_ this _place could look any different. Last I saw of this place, it wasn't nearly as... open."_

_"I can see I'm going to be outmatched on this decision," Weaver muttered, before sighing. "I'll try it out, then. Just to test the waters and make sure none of you guys mess this up."_

_"Your faith in us is astounding," Araneae remarked dryly._

_As Weaver stood up, Peter watched the bleeding figure hobble off towards a small circle of light that had appeared nearby. He then gave a sigh and a shrug. "Well... what's the worst that could happen?"_

* * *

As it turned out, a lot worse _could_ happen. It was early morning by the time Weaver was out and about, blinking curiously to adjust to having control of the body. Upon the success of the operation, the others began discussing other possibilities, which Weaver promptly ignored with a roll of his eyes. They were all too trusting of... whatever was going on, and the mask didn't like it one bit. Still, the opportunity presented itself to explore on his own whim; something he didn't think he'd have much opportunity to do, and the urge to wander of his own volition was too much for him to ignore.

At first, Weaver had tried to be careful and avoid areas he knew from their collective memory would be crowded. However, as the excursion kept going off without a hitch, he became bolder to peruse the Compound in its entirety, which led to him entering the nearby vent system. This decision was met with some apprehension that Weaver elected to discard. Things were going so well; how was moving through the vents a bad thing?

Following that thought, he moved across an unstable grate and promptly fell through it. Thankfully, he was able to catch himself well enough, clinging to the ceiling by the tips of his fingers. What he wasn't ready for were the stares that followed suit from the Avengers. Weaver returned their gaze, coming to the realization he'd ended up in the kitchen and of _course_ they would be out at this time of morning to eat breakfast before starting their day. With a barely repressed sigh, he slackened his grip and allowed himself to fall to the ground, where he laid on his back and stared at the ceiling with contempt.

_The grate really betrayed your trust, didn't it?_ Rose remarked sarcastically.

_I don't think we took the others we live with into consideration when considering this idea,_ Peter frowned nervously. _What should we do?_

_Act natural, maybe they won't notice the difference,_ Araneae suggested.

"You okay, kid?" Tony frowned, offering a hand up.

"You've gotta be more careful of the grates, man. They're bastards that'll betray you on a whim," Clint empathized, having done his own fair share of adventuring in the duct system.

Taking the hand up, Weaver let out a breath. "Clearly," he stared at the offending grate laying on the ground nearby and wrinkled his nose. "Why was it loose, anyways?"

"Clint sometimes likes to pop through the vents and try to scare us," Natasha remarked as she sat on the nearby couch, flipping through a book. She paused to sip her coffee, before adding, "Grates all around the Compound are loose because of that, so you're aware for future reference, маленький паук."

"Is there a reason you were in the vents this morning?" Steve asked from the counter, where he'd set his newspaper down.

_...How exactly would you respond to this, Peter?_ Weaver asked internally, doing his best to ignore the stares still fixed on him.

_I'm just as bad as coming up with excuses as you are,_ Peter groaned.

_Say you were adventuring!_ Ben supplied.

"I was... adventuring," Weaver relayed. He then furrowed his brows as Scott and Wanda snickered, and tilted his head curiously. "Why is that so funny?"

"Sorry, I just wasn't expecting you to do a pun," Wanda smiled.

"Ad _vent_ uring," Scott chimed in, accentuating 'vent' in the word. "Because you were in a vent, and adventuring has that word."

"It's less funny if you have to explain it," Sam pointed out as he finished muting the television.

Bucky gave a shrug. "That's one of the things we're gonna have to explain, though. Steve and I didn't understand until Shuri explained to us what puns were."

"The conversation was quite amusing," T'Challa piped up. "Though I myself was taken aback when my sister pulled up an entire presentation dedicated to the topic."

Pepper made her way over, brushing a stray bang out of her face. "Just be careful. I wouldn't want you getting hurt around the house."

"I wouldn't really feel it anyways," Weaver muttered, before wincing as he realized how that shouldn't exactly be a normal thing to fall twelve feet to the ground, land on the back, and not notice any damage. "Because, uh..."

_That's... difficult to explain, isn't it?_ Araneae mused with a frown.

_Yeah, it isn't exactly a pleasant thing to mention that our body's already gone through so much pain that feeling it is second-nature,_ Rose replied dryly.

Tony frowned curiously, but simply shook his head. "You don't need to answer if you don't want to," He glanced towards the counter, where some pancakes were waiting. "You hungry? Want a bite to eat?"

Weaver shook his head. "I'm... not really hungry," He frowned at that thought, though, knowing how bad their metabolism could get if not constantly fed. He supposed he'd just grown numb to the feeling of hunger. As he walked over to the counter, he asked, "Where are the others?"

"Vision wanted to do some training, so he's still out at the training grounds. Bruce is gone at a medical conference, and Rhodey was called in to verify with the military HYDRA base locations," Steve replied, picking up his paper again.

Weaver flinched at the mention of the organization he despised, but took a calming breath as he sat at the counter. "That's... good to know."

_You are truly the pinnacle of socializing,_ Rose snickered.

_You try being social when you've had no reason to interact with anyone for years,_ Weaver shot back. Closing his eyes, he added, _I think I'll see about handing this stuff back to you, Peter. Leaving would be rude and I have no idea how to talk to any of them._

_I'm... not exactly sure how to do that,_ Peter frowned, before spotting the same light he'd seen before. _You walked into that light before, right? So if I just..._

There was a jolt of pain as Peter stepped into the light, and he hissed through his teeth as his head pounded. Unprepared, Weaver let go of his grip on the light and fell back into their inner world, leaving Peter as the person in front once more. Peter pressed a hand to his temple with a grimace, eye twitching in response to the sudden influx of pain.

_What was..._ that _about?_ Weaver asked, concerned.

_A better question would be why a headache happened after you guys swapped?_ Rose added.

"Woah, you alright, kid?" Tony asked, placing a hand on Peter's shoulder.

"I just had a really bad headache," the mutant responded, rubbing his forehead. "I was caught off-guard by it is all."

"A headache?" Sam asked, getting up from his chair to approach the former asset. "Where does it hurt?"

_Everywhere,_ Araneae muttered, squinting its eyes. _This is awful._

Peter gestured to his head. "Feels like it's coming from everywhere."

Sam frowned at that, glancing at Tony, before a curious look crossed his features. "Do you think it could be from the chips?"

"What?" Pepper asked, concerned. "Why are you asking?"

"Well, according to the files and the scan Tony did, he's got ten chips implanted among his brain tissue," Sam brought up. "I'm not exactly a medical expert- that would be Bruce's department more than mine- but from what I remember with working with war veterans is that most metal-based implants, depending on what they're made of, can erode."

The room fell silent at that, before Wanda stood and walked over. She gestured a glowing red hand to Peter. "May I check if it's the chips?"

_She can look into our mind,_ Weaver worried. _What'll she see if she gets in?_

_She did it before and didn't notice us,_ Rose pointed out. _If she's just checking on the chips I doubt she'll see us._

Peter frowned at that conversation, before slowly releasing a breath. "Go ahead."

Wanda's eyes glowed red as she rested her hand on the assassin's head. Her brows furrowed and a curious frowned crossed her face, though she seemed to have found what she was looking for and pulled her hand away, the glow dying down. "There does seem to be chip corrosion; though seeing as they're buried in brain tissue, removing them through conventional means is too risky."

"So... what can we do, then?" Bucky asked.

Wanda frowned, perusing her own abilities. "While I could in theory extract them, I'm not well-versed in anatomy to safely remove them, and while Vision could look up basic anatomy, it wouldn't be enough."

"Could Cho do it, or at least know someone who could?" Scott asked. "I mean, you said normal surgeons probably couldn't do it, but you never know when you'll come across someone magical."

Tony tilted his head. "We encountered someone magical yesterday," He gave his charge a nod. "While we were on our way back, Peter asked if we could stop the car, and found some pompous wizard looking dude."

"Do you remember where he was when you saw him?" Steve asked. "Because while he might not be what we need, he might help point us to someone we do."

"Yeah, it was this really weird building downtown. It had a fancy pattern in the top window and almost looked like a museum," The billionaire paused as he recalled the conversation surrounding the encounter. "Actually, checking the guy out would be great anyways. He had a stone like Vision's."

The team perked up at that, and Natasha remarked, "If he had a stone like Vision's, then he's definitely someone we need to investigate. Those stones are powerful; what a wizard is doing with such a stone is something worth looking into. We could kill two birds with one stone."

"Ironic phrasing," Clint mused. "Should we give it a try later? Unfortunately, most of us already have plans for the day; it'd be best if most of us went in case things go south."

"That'd be for the best," Steve nodded. "We'll do it Friday; most of us should be available then."

"What do you want me to do?" Peter asked, lowering his hand from his temple.

Tony and Steve exchanged a look, before Tony said, "It'd probably be best if you let us handle it," He then looked at Pepper and gave her an indiscreet nod in his ward's direction.

Taking the queue, Pepper said, "Look... why don't we go exploring on Friday instead? There's so many things in New York to do; we could even go shopping and see if there's something you'd like."

_Such a subtle way of letting us down,_ Rose muttered.

_Just because of these dumb chips we can't even help out on their mission?_ Weaver asked incredulously. _That hurts._

Peter bit his lower lip, before sighing. "Yeah. That... sounds good."

With the conversation's end, they went back to what they were doing before; but Peter couldn't help the empty feeling that followed the notion that his services weren't needed to deal with his own problems. He was so used to handling his own predicaments, with no assistance ever being offered or given, that being told to stand to the side while others handled it felt wrong. And yet, he couldn't really find a point to argue; if those headaches became more frequent, he'd be useless to resolve it himself. Besides... he had other things to figure out.

Like what exactly happened to his mind that resulted in five other presences existing.

**Author's Note:**

> This won't be... fully terrible to Peter throughout the entire fic. But it's gonna definitely be a lot of hurt.  
> If you get upset easily by more depicted violence, torture, panic attacks, etc, read with caution.


End file.
